


Batman: The End

by FlameFeather86



Series: Bat-family [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22551166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlameFeather86/pseuds/FlameFeather86
Summary: Lex Luthor is President. Heroes have been outlawed. The family is splintered... And a threat both new and old has emerged. And something's up with Oracle's dreams...
Relationships: Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson
Series: Bat-family [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622542
Kudos: 16





	1. The Letter #1

**Author's Note:**

> This story spins off from pre-Flashpoint continuity; it forms a new continuity set two years after the events of HUSH, but the Multiverse exists, the other continuities exist, and they do link together. This is book ONE.

FOR THE EYES OF JAMES WORTHINGTON GORDON ONLY.

**/oracle-files/NXS-PRTX1/private/sat-5-mar/read-only/**

Dad –

There’s no saying if you’ll ever read this but you always taught me to be prepared. I’m writing this because you deserve to know the truth should something ever happen to me, and if you are reading this than you have already seen the files that I have stored on here and I feel it’s only fair that I give you some answers. And I’m sorry – I am _so, so sorry_ that it has to be this way. I’ve set up a facial recognition scan on the computer; this message will display to you, and only you.

I have no idea where to start, or what to say that could possibly rectify having to lie to you for all these years. You’ve guessed by now that I work for Batman, and I have done for quite some time. You see, I was Batgirl once; you have to believe me on that one.

I’m imagining the look in your eyes as you read this; that stern gaze as you take in everything that you’re seeing. Your mind will be ticking into overdrive as you try and work out how best to respond; the vein in your temple will be flaring. Dad, please don’t get angry. Not with me, not with _him_. I love you, and it’s because I love you that I had to keep all this from you. I will try my best to explain why but right now all I ask is that you at least try and understand - and to trust me.

Please, Dad. Trust me.

My name was Batgirl, now it is Oracle. But it has _always_ been Barbara Gordon.

It’s funny; the number of people who accepted without question that I was your daughter; biological, flesh and blood. I’m a Gordon by birth, of course, but I wasn’t yours until I was, what, thirteen?

You’ll remember the day I first came to Gotham; barely a teenager, taking my first trip to the big city when I had scarcely made it off the train and I was kidnapped by Jervis Tetch, the man who calls himself the Mad Hatter. My dad, my _real_ dad - your brother - he always told me stories about you in Gotham - The crime. The creatures. The _Bat_ -Man. I always thought he was making them all up just to scare me but there I was; alone, terrified, at the hands of a madman. You and Batman rescued me - you’ll remember that, of course - and I guess right there is when it all started. The first time I saw that masked face step out of the shadows and look me in the eye… I was afraid of Tetch, but Batman - Batman was something else. I wasn’t scared, Dad, I was in awe.

I knew right then that I wanted to help him. I had just witnessed first hand what the streets of Gotham were really like and here was a man who had devoted himself to trying to solve that problem. I felt it, Dad. Like a calling. You can’t blame me for wanting to help people, for wanting to do what is right. Call it a moral code if you want - I get that from _you_.

I’m going to tell you the story; I’m going to tell you who I am, but before I do… Dad, right now you’re probably thinking like you failed me; failed as an uncle, failed as a parent. I want to tell you right now you didn’t; you haven’t. I may not have been your daughter but you are my father, the one I tell people about; the one that matters. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my birth parents, but you know as well as I do they were about as fit to be parents as you were a husband back then. You should resent me for saying this; and I should resent you for the man you were, the husband to my namesake; but I can’t, I won’t; because when my parents died and Barbara left you we both got a second chance, and we both got what we needed. With me you became the father you always should have been, and with Sarah you became the husband you always wanted to be. You may not have raised me from birth but you raised me enough, and I came to see you - and Sarah - as my true family, and Gotham as my true home.

You know, there’s not many people who will say that; not many who will say they truly _belong_ here. I do. You do. Batman does. That’s pretty much it. I’m not even a true Gothamite but I _get_ this city. Gotham is electric; exhilarating; enterprising; it’s a city of dichotomies and diversity. It’s New York; Paris; London combined. Gotham is the hardest city in the world to live in, but if you survive you’ll never be able to live anywhere else. The story I’m telling you; the reason why I became Batgirl; my subsequent life as Oracle, it’s probably as much to do with Gotham as anything else.

Once upon a time, Gotham was a city of heroes. And I was one of them.

But then came the Joker.

Then came Luthor.


	2. Chapter 2

** Part One: **

** EXTINCTION **

**Wednesday, April 27 th.**

**Batman. Gotham City, North Bowery. 21:35 EST.**

‘Careful, you idiot! Don’t make a noise!’

‘Will you relax? There ain’t no-one around! Feller who owned this place popped it last week, and this neighborhood’s dead as ‘e is!’

‘Ain’t the neighbors I’m worried about…’

‘Oh, not with the Bat again! Ain’t you seen the news? Them heroes ain’t allowed out no more, remember? Best damn thing Luthor’s done for this country, you ask me.’

‘Don’t know, man! Johnny Poggs got nicked by somethin’, and it weren’t the cops. Tellin’ yer he’s out there still…’

I smile as I readjust the transmitter in my ear. The fear in their voices, the anxiousness. It’s been a long time since the underbelly of Gotham talked about me in those tones, not since I first started out and I got by on being a myth. Twenty years… Luthor’s martial law against the heroes of the world may have dampened my operations but I’m not stopping, not when there’s still scum like these two running about.

‘Will you hurry up and get that door open? I don’t like hanging around…’

‘I told you to quit it, there ain’t no Bat no more… Even that kid who followed him been outed, that college chick or whatever. Tellin’ you, man, it’s over!’

‘The Bat-chick?’

‘Nah, nah, the other, the one in the purple hood.’

‘Kidding? She’s a nobody! She even got a name?’

‘All these freaks have names. Ah, forget about it. She’s done. Cute though. Blonde, y’know? Petit, just the way I like ‘em. Swear, things I’d do-’

There’s a clink of metal as the shutter covering the door is unlocked and lifted up. ‘Ah, here. Got it. Right, be quick.’

The more nervous of the two is Richard ‘Ricky’ Cox; low level street thug who used to run with Scarecrow until one day he deserted right before a city-wide attack and turned himself in to Blackgate. Official police reports say he got cold feet and told the courts everything, but I reviewed the tapes myself and he showed symptoms of prolonged exposure to Scarecrow’s fear toxin. It seemed his greatest fear was me, and by the sounds of things he’s still not fully recovered.

His partner is his big brother, Michael - or Mickey as he prefers to be known. He’s been looking out for his little brother for years, tried to pass him off as a twin to get the two of them in with Two Face’s crew after the No Man’s Land - Harvey always loved the notion of using doubles in everything. They didn’t last very long; Mickey got four years in Blackgate for breaking and entering and Ricky was tossed out on the streets, pulling petty crimes before joining Scarecrow. Amazingly, the two made parole at precisely the same time; a pretty remarkable coincidence if you believe in such things - which I don’t. Someone orchestrated this, someone powerful; someone who’s trying to draw me out into the open.

Someone like Lex Luthor.

Luthor’s presidency has seen some major changes in the way we do things and not for the better. Stephanie was just the beginning; ever since she was caught there’s been a string of heroes being unmasked and imprisoned throughout the country, including Ralph Dibny and several other ex-Leaguers. Stephanie - ‘ _Spoiler_ ’ - was Tim’s girlfriend, which put Tim in a difficult positon. Jack Drake managed to cut a deal to keep Steph out of prison but Tim had no choice but to tell his father everything and he was furious. Stephanie’s been under house arrest for weeks; she goes to college, she goes home, and she has no contact with anyone. But Tim on the other hand, he refused to give up his duties as Robin and left his dad in a catch twenty-two; Jack could either turn his son in and risk him going to prison under Luthor’s regime or he let him continue to operate as Robin night after night with his life on the line. Jack Drake is a good man and a caring father; begrudgingly, he’s allowed Tim to continue to work, _and_ I trust him not to expose any of the secrets that Tim has shared. But I have to be careful. We all have to be careful. Luthor’s on a mission. We’ve been fortunate so far, few of our number have been arrested but Clark’s lying low in Metropolis, Diana has returned to Themyscira, even J’onn has gone into deep cover and is unreachable. Luthor’ll try everything to expose us, and we’re ill equipped to handle it.

I’m perched on a rooftop on Didcot Row in the Bowery. The pawn shop the Cox Brothers have just entered is a street over but I don’t want to make a move until I’m sure they’re operating alone. Sinclair’s Pawn; it’s one of the oldest in Gotham, specializing in jewelry and antiques. The owner was unmarried; he suffered a stroke last week and died in hospital, alone. It was only a matter of time before someone went for his store. I’ve had Oracle watch the CCTV feeds from nearby but until tonight it looked quiet.

Mickey and Ricky arrived on foot about twenty minutes ago. If they go for the jewelry alone they could have every intention of staying on foot - likely making for Sheldon Station which will get them out of the city on the Bristol line - with direct routes to New York, Jersey City, Metropolis, even Chicago. But something’s off. It’s too simple. I believe they were released from Blackgate for a reason; Luthor knows I will go for them and he knows that alone they’re no match for me, which is why there’s likely to be a surprise entrant; a van, maybe; more low-level goons, something to keep me occupied until the police arrive - and something that wouldn’t ever be linked back to Luthor.

I turn on my comm-link to Oracle. ‘Barbara?’

‘I’m here.’

‘I take it you’re watching?’

‘The roads are empty,’ she says. ‘I’ve got feeds for two blocks; there’s nothing.’

‘It’s never that easy.’

‘We don’t know that it’s Luthor,’ Barbara states, guessing my thoughts. ‘For once it might just be as it appears; two thugs looking for an easy score.’

‘It was him,’ I tell her, with hints of a growl.

‘I’m just saying you can’t be sure,’ Barbara replies. ‘I mean, he is the-’ She stops herself, realizing, perhaps, that arguing would be fruitless. She gives an exhausted sigh. ‘Just don’t confront him until there’s proof,’ she continues. ‘Last thing we want is for you to make a scene in the White House.’

A familiar cackle distorts the line. A signal disrupt like this means it’s about to rain, and sure enough I’ve barely had time to calculate the route between my rooftop perch and the building across from Sinclair’s before the first drops hit.

Rain. I hate working in the rain; have done for as long as I can remember. Rain makes the jumps risky and the landings awkward; it washes away evidence that might be vital to a crime scene, and it drowns out noise that may need to be heard. And in all honesty, Gotham City has seen more than its fair share of rain.

‘I’m moving into position,’ I tell Barbara.

‘Don’t suppose it’s worth me telling you to watch out.’

‘Alert Robin.’

‘Just in case, huh?’

I pull my grapple from my utility belt and aim it towards a satellite dish on a building in front. A soft squeeze on the trigger and a piston shoots out, followed by a light-weight, high density mesh cord. The piston finds it’s target and with tiny, serrated hooks it secures itself is the dish’s frame. A single tug to confirm it’s secure and then I wrap the slack twice around my left palm to ensure I don’t slip. I tell myself it is just precaution; I’ve done this thousands of times in worse conditions than this, but I pause before I jump all the same.

The city and I have grown too old together. 

The rain hits hard against my mask, a sound not dissimilar to thunder as it hits the concealed microphones and speakers. It slides down the lenses that protect my eyes and obscures my vision slightly but I don’t consider wiping away the drops, not even for a second; I’ve trained intensively in the dark for moments like these, when I have to make a move but cannot see the target. Lesson number one: know your surroundings.

I grip the gun in my right hand and the line in the other, moving the hoop I’ve created gently up the cord to a more practical position allowing me pull to change direction mid-flight should I need to. The thermals in my gloves ensure my hands don’t start to feel the cold in the rain and without another moment’s notice I leap from the building, leaving behind the safety of the rooftop and feeling nothing beneath my feet. My target looms out in front of me but I don’t hit the building, instead I let go of the line and grab the ends of my cape, catching the updraft within the fabrics and gliding smoothly in to the flat roof of an old launderette opposite Sinclair’s. I roll once as I hit the rough, graveled surface before standing straight, my cape falling into position over my shoulders.

‘That what they call falling with style?’ comes the amused voice of Oracle in my ear.

I should have known that she would still be watching, she’s got feeds city wide and can see almost everything that happens. ‘Robin’s on standby,’ she continues. ‘What’s the play?’

‘I’m going in.’

‘No rest for the wicked.’

A figure steps out from the shop. Ricky. He looks around him to make sure everything is clear before pulling out a short-range radio. The rain interrupts my signal and I can’t pick up what he says, but he stands there for another few moments looking anxiously around before heading back inside the store. Moments later, a van rounds the corner and stops outside. The brothers head out of the store hauling a couple of bags over their shoulders and what appears to be a grandfather clock that’s been somewhat hastily wrapped in a number of old blankets. Two more men emerge from the van just as a bin topples over somewhere down a nearby alleyway. Ricky jumps and drops his end of the grandfather clock. His heart rate has intensified. The bin toppling over was merely a fox burrowing for scraps but I can use the fear to my advantage; if it’s just the four of them I can be done before the police arrive.

‘Idiot!’ One of the men from the van hisses. ‘You know what that thing was worth? Eh? C’mon, get it in the van; we’ve lingered ‘ere long enough already.’ He looks nervously around. ‘I don’t like this city.’

‘Oh, not you as well!’ cries Mickey. ‘Bat this, Bat that! I’m tellin’ yer, them ‘eroes are gone!’

I almost laugh. It’s too easy.

‘Bruce?’ Barbara prompts. 

‘Batman out,’ I say, and switch off the transmitter. There’s work to be done, Barbara will understand, and she’s undoubtedly still watching so she’ll know to get Robin here if things take an unexpected turn. Once again I grab hold of the ends of my cape and use it to glide down like a parachute, landing atop the van and taking the element of surprise. All four men cry out; Mickey drops the other end of the grandfather clock and beneath the blankets I can hear the face of the clock smash. I leap down, drop kicking Ricky as I do so before swiftly turning my attention to the newly emerged driver of the van.

_Okay, five. Five against one. Shouldn’t be too bad if they don’t have guns_ …

But that’s when the militia arrive.

**Robin. Gotham City, West Bowery. 21:50 EST.**

It’s slow tonight; I almost give up and go home until Oracle’s voice comes through the transmitter and tells me to stay on alert, that Bruce might need me over on the other side of the Bowery.

I’m close enough to him if I need to get there. In the Redbird, it’s little more than a five-minute drive and the roads are mercilessly free of cars as more and more people leave Gotham and head for wealthier cities. Nowhere has been hit as hard as Gotham under Luthor’s presidency - except maybe Blüdhaven but I haven’t checked in with Dick for a couple of weeks now. Even in New York and Metropolis the poverty rate is the highest it’s been in years; the rich are flourishing but the poor are struggling. Gotham’s always had its troubles but nothing like this. Unemployment has become the normal way of living; families forced to live on little income in overpriced housing. The mortality rate for the sick and the elderly is at an all time high after Luthor abolished the Wayne Foundation’s affordable healthcare scheme, and with so few being able to afford healthcare even the hospitals are facing bankruptcy. Bruce reckons it’s Luthor’s attempt to cull the population. The rich get richer. The poor get poorer…

… And the heroes have been driven into exile.

‘Tim?’

Barbara’s voice snaps me back into concentration. ‘Yeah?’ I say.

‘He needs you. Sinclair’s Pawn. Hurry!’

‘On it.’ I hit the ignition on the Redbird and spin the car around. My knowledge of the city isn’t as good as Barbara’s, or even Bruce’s, but I know Sinclair’s is just on the other side of the Bowery, and although my car doesn’t match the Batmobile in terms of speed it will still outrace any commercial car you pit it against and she gets me where I need to go without any hassle.

‘So what’s what?’ I ask. ‘Not just a simple pawn heist?’

‘You’ve heard Bruce’s theories, right?’ Barbara responds, answering a question with a question in a somewhat typical fashion. Ever the teacher.

‘Ahh,’ I say. ‘Of course. The elusive President Luthor. Trap?’

‘Trap.’

‘Cops?’

‘Squadron.’

‘Black Ops?’

‘Looks like it could be Luthor’s private team.’

‘Nothing but the best for the Batman. I’m moved to tears.’

‘Just get there, fast as you can.’

‘Already there, Barb,’ I say, but for good measure I hit the gas to speed up. 

I pass only two other cars on my way there, and even then I’m going too fast for them to realize they have a superhero in their midst. I get to the pawn shop at a little past ten. Two black, armored SUVs block each end of the road, and immediately I see Bruce amongst a crowd of militia and what looks like the thugs who did the heist. Ok, so the situation is a little more serious than I expected; there’s more men here than is perhaps necessary but that’s Luthor for you; go big or go home. Still, none of these guys were trained by Batman. It shouldn’t be too difficult…

The trick is the gunmen.

Bruce is surrounded, but he’s free from fire in case they hit one of their own. They’re wearing Kevlar vests but their arms, legs, and head are still vulnerable, and I doubt they have the reflexes that Bruce or I have. There’s one, maybe two small units with automatics but they’re staying out of the fray for now. Bruce will keep himself in amongst the crowd as long as he can; there looks to be five or six military and another five thugs, but it’s a free for all by the looks of things and Bruce shouldn’t have any trouble engaging that lot, especially if the militia are happy to take down the very thugs Luthor hired to set the trap. Who said there was honor amongst criminals?

I have to plan this right; I don’t want to risk getting shot at myself. I count two units, four men each. They’ve spotted the Redbird but there was never going to be any cover for me on an open street, it just means I can’t play the element of surprise. Dick tells me the trick to engaging gunmen is to keep moving; don’t give them an easy target. Jump, dodge, do what you must to just stay on your feet… But it’s easy for him to say, he’s a damn acrobat with a history of circus training; he’s better prepared for situations like this.

Well, I’m not Dick, but my reflexes aren’t so bad. Guess I’ve got to do this my way…

I grab my trusty collapsible bō staff and leap from the car. As suspected, several of the men open fire on me straight away; itching to press those triggers. I jump out of shot and manage to cover myself behind one of their trucks, giving me a helpful armored shield until they stop firing. Next step is a distraction. I manage a quick glance at Batman; he’s weakening but still in control which gives me time to do what I need to do.

I climb to the roof of the truck, keeping low. They neither see nor hear me climb, means I might just be able to get that element of surprise after all.

Keeping my profile as hidden as I dare, I throw one of my custom ‘R’-shaped shurikens to a fuse box across the road. With precision that could almost make Green Arrow proud it finds its target, and the next second all the neon lights that illuminated the surrounding shops have been extinguished and what few street lights there were whose bulbs hadn’t blown also go out. We’re not encased in total darkness but it’s enough; no one dares fire blindly and me and Bruce have got night vision lenses in our masks; gives me the best opportunity to take a few of these guys out. 

Dropping down behind a couple of the confused militia I swing my bō staff into the head of the one closest to me then quickly change my direction upon impact and swing it again to the stomach of the second. As the second goes down the first comes at me; I swing the staff again and deliver a series of quick succession strikes to his legs and torso. It works like a charm, both are disorientated, but I hold the advantage for only a second before a third comes in and jumps me from behind.

Alright, note to self: less gloating.

I fall to the floor but still maintain grip of my bō, allowing me a swing to the legs to take this guy down with me. There’s barely a second before a gun happy duo from further afield are firing again, and in a quick decision I role under the van to give myself protection. I’m reluctant to use the same move twice, it almost feels like cheating, but there’s nothing else for it and I swing the staff from under the van and take out the legs of the three still closest to me. This time they actually drop their guns.

I go for the weapons first, pushing them away with my staff to ensure they’re not picked up again, and then in a move taught to me by Dick I launch myself at the two who were firing, pushing myself off of the staff for support and flying at the guys with my legs outstretched. I land on the chest of one and push him over, then follow with quick succession bō strikes to the second. A third and then a fourth all come at me as well - the two I disarmed - suddenly forgetting about the guns on the ground and opting instead for using only their fists. They’re strong, but they’re slow. One actually manages to get the bō out of my hands and throws it to one side but Bruce taught me long ago not to rely on weapons as your only means for offence. In a group like this, it’s all about alternating who you’re hitting; never put all your focus on one guy and let his friends get in from behind. Thankfully, none of these guys are especially well muscled, relying instead on guns and armor, and although I can’t do enough damage to finish any of them off I can still keep the fight going.

Time to pull the Nightwing approach. Time to get chatty.

‘Hey fellas,’ I say, in the most casual tone of voice I can muster but still delivering a series of strikes and kicks in every direction. ‘Any of you feel like sharing? ‘Cause my friend over there has this theory that you guys were hired by the President of the United States.’

Another punch, a backhand, a spinning front kick for good measure. ‘I called him mad, y’know. Surely not good-ol’ POTUS, I’d say… But then I got to thinking, I mean, it’s the perfect cover, isn’t it? Pretty much get away with anything if you’re sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office…’

These guys are trained professional, they’re not going to be disarmed by wit and charm; but that’s alright, that’s not the point. I’ve got to show they’re not getting to me; got to show this is just another routine exercise.

‘There was this one time,’ I continue, ‘where our dear President Luthor - admittedly, this was before he was president - he tried to kill Superman and take over the world. Crazy, right? And there was this other time he aided in the creation of some less than friendly folk, who - well - tried to kill Superman and take over the world… And another where he tried to sink California to sell some houses or something - still not overly clear on the plan on that one but it probably involved killing Superman at some point. Point is, it’s actually just like him and his nefarious ways to put on a play like this. It’s hurt the hero community a bit, and it’s only a matter of time before people like the Joker, or Bane, or Brainiac take advantage of a world in its current state.’

Another kick, spin, uppercut, strike. ‘Not overly keen on that to happen, me. See, I’m one of the good guys, and your boss? He’s one of the bad.’

One of the bigger men in the group grabs me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides as he lifts me in the air. I kick out with my feet and unbalance him, pushing off of his chest with just enough power to flip over his head, hook my hands around his neck, and bring him crashing to the ground by levering him backwards with my knee in the small of his back. I land somewhat awkwardly but on my feet all the same. ‘That’s just rude,’ I say.

One of the guards comes at me, gun raised. ‘Give it up, kid,’ he says. ‘Yer breakin’ federal law just by wearin’ that costume. Come quietly, give yerself over, ain’t no-one else needs get hurt.’

‘Hey, we’ve got a talker,’ I say, happily. ‘So, tell me, now we’re such good friends… What are we talking here? Rubber bullets? C’mon, you can tell me, I promise to keep it a secret. I mean, you don’t want to hurt us, right?’

He opens fire almost immediately but I’m ready for him, and as soon as he does several of his companions start as well. I stay on the move, ducking and weaving amongst old cars, bins, anything that can give me cover until I’m sheltered again behind the second of the two SUVs. It’s only then do I notice that Batman’s disappeared; three militia guards lie unconscious along with all five of the petty thugs. He hasn’t left; with any luck none of the gunmen have noticed he’s gone yet either and he can pick them off from the shadows every opportunity he gets.

But I don’t pick people off from the shadows, it’s not my style. I do what Dick does; I pretty much go in guns blazing and rely on my own skill and my own reflexes-

-And my bō staff. My bō staff that currently lies about twenty feet away. My bō staff that, if I can get to it, contains one last surprise that might see an easy victory.

Well, here goes nothing.

‘That wasn’t very nice!’ I call out, mentally mapping out a route as I do. I’ve given them my location, best way to get them to come to me… Four guys in close proximity; moving around, guns trained on every little movement… Bruce has tech in his cowl that can monitor their heartbeats and if I had to guess I’d saw a few of them are beating rather fast right now. Another two by the other van, one taking the perimeter… There’s more, I know, but I can’t see them quite yet and I’ve got to trust that Batman is watching my every move. We’ve trained together for moments like this; he knows I trust him, and he knows what my play will be.

First, a smoke bomb. A simple tactic but an effective one; I know where they are, they don’t know where I am. I’m not strong enough to knock them out with my blows but I know pressure points; I know where to focus my attacks for maximum damage. I take one closest to me, a quick strike to two gallbladder meridian points on the back of the neck, then a swift blow to the stomach meridians on his jawline, striking downwards.

That was the first move Bruce ever taught me. If he’s watching, I hope he’s proud.

First guy down, but it’s hard to say how long for. My bō is about six feet away. Without another thought I jump, roll, and grab it as I come back up. A hail of bullets comes my way but I expected it; I leap out the way and drop another smoke bomb in my wake. Two more guys ahead of me but I can take them.

Time to unleash my secret weapon…

I’ve been fighting with staffs ever since I first put on the suit. Bruce, Dick, Alfred, even Barbara have all helped train with me, and after eight years of fighting and studying bōs I’d say I’ve practically mastered them - I even started designing my own. This one’s my most recent design. Where a traditional bō is made of wood, this is made with a fiberglass alloy, and even more unconventionally it can collapse in on itself for easy storage but still retain its rigidity when erect. But here’s the secret bit: the middle of the staff is insulated, with two concealed batteries connecting to a voltage amplifier. Both ends of the staff can deliver a high voltage - but low amperage - shock; basically, it’s enough to knock someone off their feet but not enough to kill them. To be perfectly honest I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to test it out, and these guys fit the bill perfectly.

I launch myself at the two military goons and immediately hit the trigger in the center of the bō. The first end connects with the guy on my right, catching him in the abdomen and promptly sending him flying with a hiss of the current on impact. The second gets it in the left brachial plexus, just above the shoulder. His body jerks to one side before he hits the ground, face first, arms twitching. The first, however, is up again. It seems his vest plate took most the shock and he’s recovered pretty quick, but he’s a lumbering mess and he’s dropped his weapon. I deliver a few non-static blows with the staff before finishing him with a shock to the cervical nerves in his neck. I almost feel bad for him. That’s gotta hurt.

The smoke starts to dissipate around me. I can feel the remaining guards baring down on me, inching forward with their guns raised. I turn cautiously over my shoulder; my hands poised on my bō, my right index finger hovering anxiously over the trigger. I’m not going down without a fight…

Then, suddenly, from out the darkness, a figure reaches out and pulls one of the guards from the back, his left hand over the man’s mouth, his right pinning him close. Unbeknown to his comrades the man struggles, his cries muffled, his feet struggling as he’s dragged backwards. I smile. I know what’s coming next.

The bat emerges from the darkness like a terrible beast, his cape out wide, his eyes glaring through the black. Two guards turn. They instinctively try and fire but their shots are wasted, Batman grabs the first by the gun, pulls him close, spins him round, and dislocates both the man’s shoulders from his sockets. Without missing a beat, he throws a couple of small gas canisters into the larger cluster of militia; it momentarily stuns them while he turns to the second of the guards that came at him, firing a grapple, hooking him by the rim of his vest and propelling him forward as the grapple line recoils. He’s met with an elbow to the face and a finishing kick to the midriff.

That’s how we play.

Between the two of us the remaining mercenaries are finished pretty quick. It’s oddly liberating to be fighting closely by Batman’s side at a time like this; every blow that we deliver by fist, boot, or staff feels like it’s landing on Lex Luthor himself, _‘sticking it to the man’_ , as they say. In reality it’s not much of a victory at all; we could beat these guys in waves but with the United States government against us we’re outnumbered a thousand to one. It’s simple equations. Send enough of these guys and we’ll eventually lose.

Including the thugs hired to take the pawn shop, there’s eighteen unconscious bodies. We can’t linger; backup or even a clean-up crew will be here at any moment; but Bruce is hesitating. He kneels down next to one of the guys and pulls a fabric patch from the right arm. He throws it to me. ‘What do you think?’

I study the patch. There’s a large white ‘T’ - bold, serif font - against a black backdrop, framed in a thin maroon strip. One word sits atop the T but it doesn’t help narrow down who or what these guys are. ‘Tyger,’ I read aloud, turning the patch over as though there might be some hidden clue sewn into the back.

‘It’s on their vests as well,’ Bruce says, kicking one of the bodies over to show the same logo spread across the back of the Kevlar.

‘They’re not Black Ops,’ I point out.

‘No. They’re a private company, and they’re new.’

‘We should probably-’ I start, conscious that we’re wasting time.

‘Yes. Go. Be quick. Be cautious, we could have a tail.’

I turn and head towards the Redbird, stowing the patch in a pocket on my belt as I do and collapsing the bō so it can be easily stored. I want to stay out. I want to find out who these guys are. I want to storm right into the White House and pound my fists into our president’s face. I want to do all this but I can’t. I’m on borrowed time - so is Bruce, even if he won’t admit it. There is no light at the end of this tunnel. Lex Luthor is President of the United States and we are fugitives, felons, enemies of not just the state but the entire country.

But we’ll never give up. Ever.

‘Robin?’

I turn. Bruce is standing there looking at me. It’s impossible to read his expression under the mask but it feels like he wants to say something and can’t find the words. I raise an eyebrow beneath my mask. ‘Yeah?’

He’s silent for a moment longer until, ‘Thanks for your help.’ And then he’s gone, firing a grapple to the roof of the nearest building. Then another, and another, until he’s completely embraced by the black, starless sky.

I grin. ‘Any time,’ I say, before climbing into the Redbird and heading home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Oracle. The Clock Tower, Gotham Central. 22:10 EST.**

There are days when I really hate being stuck in this chair. Days like today that could always be solved by putting on my costume and going out in the city, leaping from rooftops with the wind in my hair. In my time as Batgirl I felt so free, so powerful, and every now and then it kills me to think I will never feel that again. But then I remember who I am now; the woman I’ve become from the somewhat naïve girl who would jump off of rooftops without a care in the world. I think about the work I do; the things I’ve accomplished from behind a desk.

I steal a hopeful glance at the monitors that had displayed Sinclair’s, but whoever these guys are they’ve covered their tracks. All electronic signals from the CCTV in the stores and even the traffic satellites I repositioned over the area have been knocked out - some sort of localized EMP if I had to hazard a guess. I’ve still got a radio link to Bruce but he won’t talk, not at the moment, and with him and Tim being radio silent there’s little I can do to help them.

Yawning, I go back to updating a database I’ve been compiling ever since Luthor executed his martial law and put the hero community out of action. He called it the ‘Hero Referendum’. It’s funny, I don’t ever remember actually getting a vote on it. ‘ _Superheroes Banned!_ ’ the headlines read. Of course, being publically barred from operating hasn’t put a stop to all proceedings, we’re just having to be a bit more careful about what we’re doing.

The League, the Justice Society, the Titans, and the Outsiders have all been disbanded - though there have been reports from Central City that Wally might still be running around, apparently with Jay Garrick and Alan Scott in tow although my sources can’t confirm. Bruce says Clark’s lying low; Arthur’s in Atlantis; and Diana’s returned to Themyscira - something of a self-imposed exile after the death of Cassie Sandsmark, _Wonder Girl_. Cassie was the first casualty but she won’t be the last. Kyle Rayner and Guy Gardner haven’t been heard from at all; they could be dead, but Dick’s suggested they’ve likely returned to Oa or they’re working a different sector. It’s impossible to know for sure because all League communication is out and J’onn J’onzz, the Martian Manhunter, has gone into hiding, severing all telepathic links.

John Stewart - ever the military man - joined Luthor’s government sanctioned ‘Super Force’, led by Captain Atom. What his motives are we can’t be sure, but Bruce has cut all ties regardless; he couldn’t risk what Stewart might feel compelled to share with Lex, though ultimately I hope it’s just Bruce being paranoid.

The only person I’ve had constant link with outside of Gotham is Dinah. Her and Ollie are keeping low in Star City, but knowing both of them it’s unlikely they’d quit the game entirely. Connor, Mia, and Roy are all cut from the same cloth; none of them could ever turn their backs on their duties entirely, and Ollie - mask or not - will fight fascism until the day he dies - _again_. One day there’ll be an uprising, and I feel confident that if Ollie doesn’t start it he’ll make damn sure he’s leading it.

Another yawn, a stretch of my arms, and I toss my headset onto the desk. I glance up at the clock on the wall; it’s still early but my eyes are closing. I lean back in my chair and suddenly it feels more comfortable now than it has ever done before. I take my glasses off to rub my eyes, contemplating making a mug of coffee. I should stay up; there’s work to be done.

Then again…

‘I hate this,’ my father says, cutting an article about Joker’s escape from Arkham from the morning edition of the Gotham Examiner. ‘Whenever we jail him I think _please God, keep him there_. Then he escapes and we all sit around hoping he won’t do anything too awful this time. I hate it.’

‘Dad, just once could you leave your work at the office and relax?’ My words echo round my head. I remember saying them. I remember I set down a tray on the table in front of him; one last attempt to pry him from his work so that he might actually enjoy the time he has off. I remember what I say next. ‘Here, look. I made you some cocoa.’

This isn’t real. This can’t be real. There’s… There’s a knock at the door, but it’s not yet … it’s too soon…

‘Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll drink it when I’ve pasted this latest clipping in.’ My dad and his scrapbooks. It was useless, I knew it was. He insisted on keeping records of every little thing that happened, separate books on all the major players. Even then I saw the similarities between him and Batman and I knew, even then, that I could never stop being Batgirl…

The box is heavy in my arms, but that’s what I get for owning loads of books. The sun shines though there’s a slight breeze - but as I stand on the porch with a box full of books - sweating, somewhat, in a faux leather jacket - the breeze against my cheeks is a welcome edition.

‘You’re the woman from Craigslist?’ comes a moderately incensed and impatient woman’s voice as the door opens. ‘Gorgon?’ She’s young, she’s brash, she smiles a smile as fake as my jacket. First impressions aren’t great; of her, the neighborhood, or the building.

‘Uh, Gordon,’ I correct her. ‘Barbara Gordon.’

She sighs. ‘Follow me, Gordon-Barbara-Gordon.’

‘Y’know, I found that Catwoman scrapbook you said was missing,’ I tell my father. ‘It was behind the wardrobe.’

That was another thing; he was forever losing the damn scrapbooks and I was forever finding them. I told him on countless occasions to sort out a proper filling system, I even offered to do it for him, but he would always just grunt and say I shouldn’t be so fussy.

There’s a knock at the door. This is it.

At first I’m reminded of my yoga class that night with a friend across the street. She was one of the few friends I had back then but I can’t even remember her name anymore. Colleen… Colleen something? Maybe it doesn’t matter. I don’t think I ever saw her again after that.

‘That the door?’ dad asks, looking up from his clippings.

‘Yeah, it’ll be Colleen,’ I say. ‘C’mon dad, put your scrapbooks away, we have company.’

I straddle the bike with my gloved hands on the ignition. Dick’s standing beside me, only it’s not… It’s him, I know it’s him, but the suit… His suit is different, and the way he’s looking at me; the way _I’m_ looking at _him_ …

‘Truce, lady,’ he says, ever cool, ever in command. ‘We all know you’re the smart one.’

‘You checking up on me now?’ My reply is as cold as my posture. Why am I like this…?

‘No,’ Dick says, quickly. Then with a wry smile and sheepish charm adds, ‘a little. Yes.’

‘Better get to the point quick then, ‘cause I’m not finding this as charming as you think it is.’

It’s a lie. I know it’s a lie. _He_ knows it’s a lie. If there’s only ever been one word to describe Dick Grayson, it’s _charming_ ; he and he alone seems to know exactly what I want to hear and when I want to hear it. It’s endearing. It’s infuriating. 

Another grunt. ‘Look at this one,’ Dad says, waving an ancient clipping about Joker and the Batman in front of me. ‘First time they met. Now what year was that?’

I search the back of my head but I can’t remember the exact date. ‘Not sure,’ I say. ‘But I remember you describing the white face and the green hair to me when I was a kid. It scared the hell out of me.’ I pause at the memory, but another knock at the door and I remember Colleen is waiting.

‘I tend bar at night, and paint during the day.’

She hasn’t stopped talking ever since I arrived; hasn’t even offered to help me with my boxes. She loves the sound of her own voice, that’s for sure; probably praises her own paintings and the way she mixes drinks as well. I really don’t want to live with her but on the other hand she’s so self absorbed she’s unlikely to notice when I slip out at night…

‘I don’t really have any rules,’ she continues, ‘except no creepy boyfriends, please. Do you have a creepy boyfriend?’

Can you call him creepy? Can you call him my boyfriend? Have we ever even had a real date? How do I say I’m a costumed crime fighter having an on-again, off-again fling with another costumed crime fighter who I’ve known since I was fifteen, who I love with every fiber of my being but somehow can’t ever find the time to actually tell him that, or maintain a serious relationship with him? How do I tell her my life is complicated; stuck in a wheelchair in an old clock tower, my only regular visitors being my dad - who doesn’t know the truth about me - and my mentor, who uses me for information and can’t quite ever bring himself to say thank you. How do I tell her that this, right now, is a lie? This isn’t a memory… This never happened… How do I tell her…?

‘I wish,’ I say, not quite sure on why. She’s looking at me blankly, paintbrush in her hand. ‘That didn’t come out right,’ I add, faintly. 

I reach for the handle with a steaming mug of cocoa in one hand. I’m expecting Dick’s coy grin on the other side. I’m expecting this brash new housemate. I’m expecting my friend - my friend from yoga - _Colleen_ \- but it’s not. It’s not any of them. It’s not Dick and his baby blue eyes; it’s not my bartending painter; it’s not Colleen…

I don’t manage a word as I stare into the bloodshot eyes and the milk-white face half hidden in shadow beneath a wide-brimmed panama… That smile: sadistic and merciless. The words of my father’s first description of this man fill my head again, stopping all logical thoughts that tell me to move. I’m so focused on his face that I don’t notice the gun in his hand until it’s too late and he’s fired a single shot to my waist.

I fall back. The mug of cocoa is flung from my hands and I land on the glass coffee table that is littered in my father’s clippings.

I stare at Dick. ‘I don’t see how we can ever be … be _friends_ if you don’t do this for me,’ I say.

I don’t mean it… I know I don’t mean it… I know what’s about to happen before it’s happened… I asked him to leave me alone. I told him I needed to be alone…

He looks at me as if he’s about to say something but doesn’t. I need to say something else; I need to _do_ something else… A sign; a gesture… My hair blows in the wind, wrapping itself around my neck, into my face; my mouth. It’s cold tonight, even in my suit I can feel it. Or maybe it’s the tension. Maybe it’s being here with Dick…

Dick… He always did love my hair, he said so… The way the light would catch it in the mornings, the colors that would reflect from it… I told him… I told him I needed to be alone…

I pull out a small blade and cut off a handful of my hair. ‘It doesn’t mean I don’t lo- _care_ about you,’ I say, pushing the hair into his hand. _Get the hint_ , _Dick_ , I plead inside my head. _Take it as a gesture_ , _know that I do love you_ … I do love you, even if this girl, this… this _me_ that I don’t remember being, even if she - _I_ \- can’t say it…

‘BARBARA!’ Dad’s scream sounds miles off.

‘Please don’t worry,’ comes the voice of the madman, stepping in and stopping my father from coming to my aid. ‘It’s a psychological state, common amongst ex-librarians usually. You see, she thinks she’s a coffee table edition.’

‘Barb…’ Dad’s voice is weak.

‘Mind you, I can’t say much for the volume’s condition,’ Joker continues. ‘I mean, there’s a _hole_ in the jacket and the _spine_ appears to be damaged. Frankly, she won’t be walking off the shelves in that state of repair. In fact, the idea of her walking anywhere seems increasingly remote.’

‘You…’ Dad hisses. ‘You scum! My daughter, I’ll…’

I hear the sounds of a struggle. Joker continues to say his piece but I find it hard to concentrate. I open my eyes just wide enough to see the Joker in the light and see he’s dressed so casually in a Hawaiian shirt and cut-off cargo pants; a camera around his neck. It makes it all the more frightening…

‘Follow me, Gordon-Barbara-Gordon…’

‘No… A little… Yes…’

‘It doesn’t mean I don’t lo- _care_ about you…’

‘That didn’t come out right…’

‘Cripple the bitch!’

‘Follow me, Gordon-Barbara-Gordon…’

He pours himself a drink of whisky and then bends down next to me. It takes me a while to find the strength to speak, and when I do all I can manage is a stutter as he begins to strip me of my clothes. ‘Why…’ I start, faintly. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘To prove a point,’ he replies with a shrug, pausing from his task of unbuttoning my shirt only to lift his glass in the air and wink at me. A slight shrug. ‘Here’s to crime.’

I don’t even begin to think what his point might be that he’s trying to prove; in fact, I don’t want to think about anything right now. I’m powerless against him as he continues to unbutton my top, remove my bra, my skirt… and then he stands, lifting the camera from around his neck. 

‘Smile,’ he hisses…

I scream and my eyes snap open. I look around and it takes me a moment to familiarize my surroundings. I’m sitting in the Clock Tower, sweat lining my top. My chair hasn’t moved; the headset still lies motionless on the table; in fact, the only thing to have changed is the time displayed on the clock. ‘Just a dream, Barbara,’ I tell myself. ‘Just a dream.’

But it wasn’t just a dream. They were memories… Memories, _my_ memories, but they didn’t all come from me… I was Batgirl… I was Batgirl _again!_ And I was walking; I was out of the chair, I was carrying some damn boxes up some stairs… And Dick… It looked like Dick, it felt like Dick, but what he was wearing… The blue… The blue stripe was red; Dick would never wear red, he told me so. It reminded him of being Robin, and if Nightwing was ever going to work he needed it to be an entirely separate identity…

I shake it from my mind. It was a dream; it doesn’t matter. I remind myself that I know who I am. I’m Oracle. I’m in the Clock Tower. What’s around me right now is all that matters, and everything that happened with the Joker is in the past. He can’t get me in here… I tell myself all that to keep myself focused on my tasks at hand. I tell myself all that to make myself feel better. I tell myself that I haven’t been having similar dreams for a few weeks now; dreams of places I’ve never been; people I’ve never met…

_But you have met the Joker. That, at least, was real. You remember that like it was yesterday…_

‘ _Barbara?_ ’ However hard he might be I’m almost thankful to hear Bruce’s voice. He sounds tired, but it means he’s not in Luthor’s grasp quite yet. But I know him. He wants something, and he’s unlikely to ask nicely. 

‘I’m here,’ I say, probably sounding equally tired, and a little frustrated. I love him, but he can get me in a state sometimes - enough to make me question why it is I do what I do. I have to keep telling myself that at the end of the day we’re fighting the good fight: we do what we do because no one else will.

‘The men that attacked us had patches on their uniforms,’ he tells me. ‘The name Tyger, with a ‘Y’.’

‘Tyger, Tyger, burning bright…’ I muse, mentally reciting the first stanza in Blake’s famous poem.

‘I’ve heard of them,’ I tell him. ‘They’re a PMSC - private military, security, y’know? Now that I think about it, they’re just the kind of little nest egg Luthor would be sitting on… Hang on, I’ll see what I can pull up.’

‘Anything that can be related back to Luthor.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ I warn him. ‘He’d have covered his tracks, you know he would, but there may be another…’ I trail off, my attention diverted by a news headline that’s come up from my search.

‘Barbara…?’ Bruce prompts.

‘This is interesting,’ I say, somewhat absentmindedly as I read the article. ‘This headline… ‘New private sector firm Tyger Security appoints new president and CEO…’.’

‘Luthor?’

‘No, no, he’s … he’s a cop. _Well_ , ex. He was in Dad’s special unit for a spell, I met him once at some charity function… Alan Burns, detective sergeant, honorably discharged at full pension… Hang on, I can get his service record… Okay… There’s not much here; though that’s weird… _Urm_ , left twelve years ago, diagnosed PTSD after his family were killed in a home invasion; treated for his illness by … by Hugo Strange…’

‘Strange?’

‘But here’s where it gets funny: Alan Burns is dead. Dad told me, he committed suicide four years ago. Happens all the time with PTSD victims apparently, Dad tries to keep it out of the papers on fear of them besmirching the names of the deceased. ‘Cowardly’. ‘Weak’. ‘Unfit to ever wear a badge’, however the press what to swing it… But… But this is a front, it has to be. Someone’s using Burns’ name, surely?’

I pause, but Bruce doesn’t say anything. ‘Here, listen to this,’ I continue. ‘From the news repot, ‘Celebrated ex-serviceman Alan Burns, fifty-four, served two years in the special forces before joining the Gotham City Police Department under the guidance of then-Commissioner James Gordon. Upon retiring from active duty he founded Ashworth Security in Blüdhaven, a privately owned security service specializing in risk management and home protection. Burns’ drive, determination, and commitment to service helped his small company flourish until their recent merger with Tyger Security, forming the largest private sector firm in the country. Burns said of the acquisition, ‘With Tyger’s background in operating under military conditions and with my military career it felt like the perfect fit. All our operatives come from a military or SWAT background and will perform to the high standard our company is associated with.’ It is rumored Tyger recently signed a multi-million-dollar contract with LexCorp, personally overseen by LexCorp CEO Talia Head.’’

‘Talia…’

‘Isn’t she, y’know, helping us?’ I ask.

‘She’s working against her father, that doesn’t mean she’s working with us.’

‘But Lex…’

‘… Could have planted this, maybe even before he became president.’

‘And Strange…?’

‘Arkham, heavy security. I’ll have to pay him a visit. Keep looking into Tyger. Pull up anything you can; even private companies must leave paper trails. Find out what you can about Burns. Talk to Nightwing, he’s in Blüdhaven, he can look into Ashworth.’

‘You can’t go to Strange,’ I remind him. ‘Your mere presence can excite him; he knows who you are, remember? Don’t give him a reason to exploit you.’

‘He’s stayed quiet this long.’

‘Then let’s keep it that way. Send Dick, or Tim…’

‘I will not put either of them in a room, alone, with Hugo Strange.’

‘But…’ I trail off, realizing our dilemma. With so many of us out of action our options are pretty thin.

‘We have no choice, Barbara.’

‘Bruce, don’t-’

‘Call Dick. Leave Strange to me.’

‘Goddamit, Bruce! I-’ But before I can say another word the line goes dead; he’s cut us off. Fifteen years and he still won’t listen to me.

Fuming, I find Dick’s frequency instead. I’m about to call through but I pause for a moment, images from my dream flashing back into my mind. That wasn’t Dick… It couldn’t have been Dick…

Honestly, calling Dick right now might actually be something of a comfort; at least I know _he_ won’t hang up on me.

**Nightwing. Blüdhaven, Island Point. 22:43 EST.**

There’s been a report come in of a couple of thieves hiding out in a warehouse down in the city’s southern most docks; possible suspects on a diamond heist on a jewelry store last week. It’s low key, by all accounts they didn’t actually make off with that much but things have been pretty quiet of late. It’s surprising, especially if you think about what’s happened, but then again the ‘Haven isn’t quite the cesspit that it used to be, not since I cleared out Blockbuster - and even with Luthor’s regime the scum of the city might just be lying low. Even criminals need caution.

Blüdhaven is an old whaling town with three main docks still in constant use. The Island Point docks hit the lowest of the city’s already low standards, none of the few big corporations that bring their shipments in to the ‘Haven use these piers which makes them perfect for thieves and smugglers alike. Blüdhaven officially became a commonwealth in nineteen-twelve, but it’s maintained a poor socio-economic populace thanks to it’s failed attempts to turn itself into the East Coast’s primary manufacturing and shipping centre. Even Gotham is a more desirable place to live and work, and that’s saying something.

I jump a chimney top; vaulting myself over with perfect position. I can see the docks coming up in the distance, a dozen tall masts sticking up against the skyline, glistening in the moonlight. I jump another chimney. I almost lose position due to the rain we had earlier but I regain control and land perfectly on my feet on the other side. The vault was the circus training. The landing was Batman.

I run the rooftop then drop to another until finally I can see the water stretch out ahead of me. There’s a whole line of warehouses running along dockside in the distance, each one a potential hideout and each one looking as hauntingly empty as the next.

This isn’t even a confirmed lead. 

I fire a grappling hook across to the closest mast on one of the schooners, then as soon as I reach it I leap across to the next. I consider briefly dropping to the ground and running across to the warehouses but I don’t want to risk getting spotted, especially since I’m not even supposed to be operating. Despite the time of night and the reputation of Island Point, these docks are still active with several bars and seafood restaurants, and Bruce has always taught me to remain stealthy, especially in situations like these. Thing about growing up with Batman, you start to work out plans and contingencies for everything. 

I jump across the line of boats until I’m closer to the warehouses and out of main bustle of the docks. I count one bar with the lights still on. I’ve got to be careful; it’ll be closing soon and I don’t want to deal with the drunks.

I fire another grapple across to the roof of the first warehouse. I drop silently to the graveled surface and make my way to one of the skylights. It’s empty, but then I never expected it to be first time lucky. No bother, I’ll just make my way across to the next one until I…

‘Dick?’

It’s Oracle. ‘Hey, Babs,’ I say into my transmitter. ‘We ditching the codenames now?’

She gives a small chuckle. ‘Alright, Boy Wonder,’ she says, mockingly. ‘We can play it your way.’

‘That’s my girl. Everything alright?’

‘You ever heard of private security firm called Tyger?’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Didn’t they just sign a contract with LexCorp?’

‘That’s the rumor,’ Barbara replies. ‘What about a smaller firm, Ashworth?’

‘Should I?’

‘It was set up in Blüdhaven, probably about five to ten years ago.’

‘Babs, ten years ago I was wearing a disco collar and running around with the Teen Titans. C’mon, you know I didn’t move to the ‘Haven ‘til I had gotten past my blue and gold phase…’

She begrudgingly laughs, as I knew she would. ‘You know, I had forgotten about the disco collar,’ she says.

‘No, you hadn’t.’

‘No, I hadn’t. Got to admit, it was pretty dashing.’

‘Works for Boston.’

‘Boston’s dead. Anything works when you’re dead.’

‘I think ‘undead’ is probably the term…’

‘He literally calls himself Deadman…’

‘Well, he wears a disco collar, he’s not one for subtlety.’ I pause. ‘So what’s the deal with this firm?’

‘Way to change the subject, Grayson. Now, about that blue and gold number…’

‘Barbara…’

She chuckles. ‘Founded by an ex-cop,’ she tells me. ‘Guy called Alan Burns who used to work with Dad, set up this firm after being discharged with PTSD.’

‘And Tyger?’

‘Recent merger, Burns is CEO.’

There’s something else, I can tell. ‘But…’ I prompt.

‘Burns committed suicide four years ago.’

‘Now you’re talking,’ I say, excitedly. ‘Haven’t had a good mystery to solve for a while.’

‘Think you can look into Ashworth for me?’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ 

She breaths a barely distinct sigh of relief; or maybe it’s exhaustion. ‘Thanks,’ she says, but doesn’t switch off. I feel like she wants to say something else but she’s reluctant. I’ve seen it on her before. She keeps a lot close to her chest; she buries stuff that she’d rather not think about - and after everything she’s been through I can sort of understand why. But I hate it when she does it; it doesn’t do her any good. She bottles stuff up and shuts herself off from everything, putting all her energy into her work and becomes almost robotic when she does so.

‘Babs, is everything alright?’ I ask. ‘You sound a little…’

‘Just tired is all,’ she replies, quickly.

I’m not convinced. ‘That it?’

There is something else, I know there is. For a moment I think she’s not going to tell me, but then she sighs again and starts to speak, almost like she was waiting for the opportunity. ‘I had a dream,’ she says, ‘of the night the Joker… The night I was…’ She can’t bring herself to say it; it’s hard for her to remember the night when she was shot and paralyzed, but I understand what she’s trying to say all the same. ‘It’s nothing,’ she adds, in tones of false confidence. ‘Just shook me up a little.’

‘Do you want me to…?’

‘No, stay in Blüdhaven, look into Ashworth for me, I’ll be fine.’

I know better than to argue with Barbara Gordon. ‘I’m just checking out a warehouse,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll call you in the morning, alright?’

She agrees, utters a goodbye, and breaks the connection. I assume she’s going to bed; a luxury she rarely affords herself. I have an urge to go to her, to lie next to her and hold her. I don’t even know what I’d say; being shot and bound to a wheelchair isn’t exactly something I have first hand experience with, but still… 

I try and get my mind focused back on the task at hand. I’ve still got to locate this damn warehouse, and if Barbara wants me to look into Ashworth that’s another chunk of the night taken… Was she really okay? I can’t seem to stop worrying about her. She sounded almost scared. It’s not like her to get scared. I thought she had put all memory of that night out of her mind, but this… Was there something else? Something more to that dream she wasn’t telling me?

I hear some drunken yelling from the street below and I’m snapped back to concentration. I glance over the edge of the roof and see the lights go out in the bar and crowds of people disappear into the city. I’m about to turn away when I see two men go in the opposite direction, heading towards these warehouses.

Curiously I follow them, jumping the short gaps between rooftops until finally they come to a stop outside the third building from the end. They lift up the corrugated shutter over a pair of heavy steel doors and make their way inside. I head to the skylight and watch the two men sit down around a table where they are joined by several others.

Bruce carries equipment which allows him to listen to conversations behind closed doors but I’m limited to what I can attach to my suit. Shurikens, grapples, I’m your guy. High tech spy-ware, not so much - although the lenses in my mask can do infrared which is pretty cool. Sometimes, however, the old ways are the best, which is why occasions such as this call for the less glamorous approach; like lifting up one of the window panels, just enough to see what’s going on, and hear what is being said.

One of the two that came from the bar is pacing. He’s thin and gangly; a mop of knotty, sandy-blond hair sits on his head and his clothes don’t look as though they’ve been washed for a while. Now that I notice it, the whole warehouse shows signs that they’ve been living here for a few weeks at least, and none of them have particularly good housekeeping skills. Moth-eaten armchairs, likely taken from a skip or a dump; a crude outdoor gas-cooker; a table, littered with cheap, dollar-a-can lager. Not exactly your Four Seasons (not that Blüdhaven has one of those) but undoubtedly home to these guys.

‘Will you quit yer pacin, you’re making me anxious,’ says one of the others. He’s shorter and stockier than his comrade, but just as unclean.

Blondy stops and turns to him. ‘Don’t like waitin’,’ he says.

A third guy chuckles. ‘In the wrong place then, ain’t yer? Waitin’s all we do ‘round here.’

A few of the others laugh, but Blondy and his partner from the bar don’t look too impressed. ‘Yeah, well I di’n’t sign up for this,’ Blondy says. ‘Simple snatch and grab, I was told. Get the shit, get paid, get out.’

His partner backs him up. ‘Yeah!’ he says, in loud agreement. ‘What the hell we doin’ here anyway?’

‘Waiting,’ says a guy further back, a wry smile on his lips.

This, however, isn’t the answer that Blondy’s partner apparently wanted to hear. ‘Forget this,’ he says, glaring at the room. ‘We’re out of here.’

At this, the rest of the men seem to come to life. The stocky one moves to the door, whilst the one at the back - smile faded - pulls a gun, pointing it at Blondy and his cohort. ‘Can’t let you do that,’ he says, seriously. ‘Boss asked for yer, no backin’ out now.’

I count six men altogether, including a now anxious looking Blondy and his equally nervous partner. I could probably take all six on if I had to; they don’t look too heavily armed and at least two have been drinking - and I learnt enough tricks about intimidation from Batman to get the upper hand pretty quick - but this is bigger than the diamond heist and my best option is to let it play out for a bit longer; see if I can’t find out who this mysterious boss is.

‘Boss wants us ‘ere, can’t be bothered to show his face hisself!’ Blondy cries, attempting - and failing - to sound tough. A dark patch has appeared in his khakis around his crotch; I’m not sure whether to laugh or just feel sorry for him.

Blondy’s partner is doing a better job of containing his bladder but his face is showing exactly what he’s feeling. ‘Where is he, anyway?’

‘Gotham,’ says Stocky. ‘He ain’t from the ‘Haven, and he don’t want to be disturbed. But you know what, this might just be your lucky day, ‘cause he said he might just be stoppin’ by.’

‘That’s bull!’ cries Blondy. ‘Just sayin’ that to keep us ‘ere.’

At this, Stocky moves from the door. He even beckons to it. ‘Awright,’ he says, ‘you don’t believe me, there’s the door. But what do you think he’s gonna do to yer when he gets here and finds you gone, eh?’

Blondy considers this for a moment; he looks at his partner and together they move to a couple of folding camp chairs and sit down. ‘Di’n’t mean nuttin’,’ Blondy mumbles.

The one at the back shoves his gun in the waist of his pants. ‘Good,’ he says, settling himself into one of the moth-eaten armchairs. The smile is back. ‘So now we wait.’

I lower the panel and settle back on the roof, shifting myself to get as comfortable as I can. Sounds like Blondy and the other were responsible for the diamonds taken from jewelry store but there’s more to it than that, and they’re as in the dark about it as I am. Someone hired them to do this, someone from Gotham, and someone that they don’t particularly want to cross. Most of the big guns are in Arkham, though how long they’ll stay there under Luthor it’s impossible to say. Ventriloquist’s out but this just isn’t his style. Reports have Bane as being home in Santa Prisca, and though it’s not unfeasible that he could be here this just doesn’t feel like something he would do. Jewelry makes me think Selina, but Bruce swears she’s reformed and I have no reason to doubt him, and even then it’s unlikely she’d ally herself with men like this. Harvey Dent is, of course, the current poster boy for reformation, but he’s been working closely with Jim Gordon and I have to believe that he’s genuine about the man he is now.

Nothing happens for another couple of hours. It’s close to one in the morning when I finally hear a car pull up next to the warehouse. I groan as I push myself to the edge of the roof, stretching my arms and legs as discreetly as I can. It’s a black limo; tinted windows. This guy has money and likes to travel in style. Typical egomaniac stuff but strangely it narrows the list of suspects pretty narrowly. Before I even see a figure emerge I realize who it has to be.

The driver’s door opens and a stick figure of a man gets out, head held high as he walks the length of the car and opens the rear door. A small, squat pair of legs gets out of the back, followed by a belly so large that it just looks completely out of place on a person so small. He’s got a smart, black evening suit on, complete with lapels and a silk top hat, and when Oswald Cobblepot lifts is head I can see his small, taut mouth is puffing on a cigar, and a pentacle covers his left eye. The question is, what’s the Penguin doing here in Blüdhaven?

I can never help but laugh when I see the size of this man, especially next to his stick figure of a driver, but it doesn’t pay to underestimate the Penguin; his gloved hands have more red on them than I care to think, and his beaked nose is into more underground dealings than anyone could estimate. After Bruce wiped out organized crime in Gotham and what was left of the Falcone and Maroni families moved out of state, Cobblepot saw a gap in the market and took it upon himself to start it all back up again, and sadly he seems to be smarter about it than Carmine Falcone ever was. Nothing we try and stick him with holds for long. It’s practically impossible to keep him in Blackgate; hell, if we did he’d probably be running it within a week. Really, I should have predicted this a couple of hours ago; if there’s an illegal deal going on then Penguin’s usually behind it, the question is why Blüdhaven, and why now?

The driver waits at the entrance to the warehouse as Penguin goes inside. I take my place at the skylight again, brushing hair out of my eyes as I strain to listen to what’s being said.

‘Well,’ the Penguin says, his high-pitched voice coming out like a squawk befitting his namesake, covering traces of a native east-coast accent. ‘Ain’t you a sorry bunch of miscreants, eh?’ He laughs a screech-like laugh. ‘I trust everything is in order?’

Blondy speaks up. ‘Got the stuff you requested right here, Boss!’

He goes to reach into his pocket and offer the contents out but Penguin quickly draws back. ‘Not here, you fool!’ he barks. ‘Never know _who_ might be watching.’

Instinctively, I withdraw somewhat from the window but no-one appears to even look around, let alone up. I’m confident that Blondy was about to give him the diamonds but that doesn’t matter; something tells me these guys won’t be hard to find again if I need to, and right now whatever Penguin has planned for them is of greater importance.

Blondy takes a seat again, looking slightly crestfallen. The Penguin remains silent for another minute, sizing each of the men up. ‘The boat’s comin’ in Friday night,’ he finally says. ‘Ten. I’ll do the talkin’, you guys collect the crates.’

‘You can count on us, Boss,’ says Stocky, sucking up as much as he dares.

Penguin lets out another squawk-like laugh, picks up his umbrella, and waddles towards the exit. I lean back against the skylight and moments later hear the limo doors close and the screeching of the tires as it turns and heads into the city.

I’m about to switch on my transmitter to try and get through to Oracle until I remember the time. I don’t want to disturb her, not with something as trivial as ‘Penguin’s got something going on, thought you might wanna know.’ I chuckle as I imagine the hard stare she’d give me if I woke her up over something like this. Not worth it, not even just to hear her voice…


	4. The Letter #2

**/oracle-files/NXS-PRTX2/private/thurs-10-mar/edt’d/read-only/**

So where do I start?

Well, if you’ll permit me, I should probably talk about Sarah - but it’s hard to find the right words.

Sarah Essen-Gordon. She was as fine a woman, and officer, as you could ask for - I know you’ll agree with me on that one. But beyond that, she put her heart into this dysfunctional family and treated me like I was her own. I mention this because I think it’s fair to say she inspired me a little bit; she proved to me what a woman could be, and the difference that I could make. I mention this because I know you can’t be angry with me, because you know as well I do what she would have said to all of this. ‘A girl’s got to go her own way.’ She chose you when you were still married, and I chose Batgirl knowing full well the risk I was undertaking. She didn’t look back, and neither have I.

‘A girl’s got to go her own way.’

You know, sometimes I like to think that she knew about me but didn’t say anything, like she wanted me to do this. It’s not true, of course; if she had known she would have told you, and if she had told you I wouldn’t be writing this today; I mean, there’s no way you would have let me carry on, right? Your young girl, putting on the tights and the cowl and going out there and fighting crime every night? Dad, you wouldn’t even let me have boys round, I couldn’t see you ever signing off on this one…

But Sarah… I guess I never really had many female role models. No sisters, no real girlfriends… You might wonder - as I have on occasion - that if I had then maybe I would never have put on the cape, but deep down I know it wouldn’t have made any difference. I’m a Gordon. I’m driven. I’m stubborn.

I do things _my_ way.

I asked you once if I could join the G.C.P.D, do you remember? You forbade it. You said, categorically, no. If you think about it Dad, maybe this actually is all your fault after all…

Sorry. I’ll try and keep the jokes to a minimum. 

I put on the mantle when I was fifteen and was Batgirl for five years, and in that time I learnt Gotham like the back of my hand. I knew that the quickest way home to Tricorner wasn’t by the Westward Bridge but by Chinatown, provided you vaulted the gap from Mrs. Wongs and zip-lined over the docks. I knew to always enter the house by the bathroom window because you would probably hear me come in if I entered by my bedroom - apart from on Thursdays when you stayed up late to watch _Happy Days_ reruns and usually fell asleep in the armchair. I knew you knew I wasn’t getting enough sleep but you put it down to the stress of my school, and I knew you took your frustration on the education system out on Sarah, who listened to your empty threats about getting the Headmistress fired with as much frustration as she did amusement. I knew these things because I was serious about what I was doing, and like you I knew I had to be the best.

It wasn’t a game to me; I _loved_ being Batgirl. But you’ll remember the day I was shot – well, that was the day when it ended.

I still remember it like it was yesterday. I still have nightmares about it. Opening the door and seeing that twisted grin, that stark white face… His words get lost in memory, but not him, not his face, not his laugh. Not his gun… Somewhere in the back of my mind another voice is heard, a man’s voice, egging him on. ‘Cripple the bitch,’ it says… And the laughter… Always the laughter…

I don’t know if I ever told you what was going through my mind when it happened; how powerless he made me feel as he removed my clothes and took those pictures. He used me; he used _me_ to get to _you_ … Momentarily, I felt like I had made a massive mistake; I was being punished for being Batgirl, punished for daring to do some good in the world… Punished, for being the daughter of the police commissioner. He made me feel small. He made me feel insignificant. That’s the real joke of it all; he made me want to _apologize_ for who I was.

But I will never, ever, apologize for who I am. Ever. I’m sorry I lied to you, but I will not apologize for putting on the cape.

You see, after that day, as I lay in the hospital - or later as I slowly adapted to life in the chair - I realized something else: I realized there was no shame in what I had done or who I was. I realized I was a hero, and no-one, not even the Joker, could take that away from me. And I realized that Batgirl was just a costume, and that I could still do some good in the world with or without it. More so, perhaps, now that my eyes were a little more open to the true horrors of the city.

My legs were taken from me but I couldn’t stop, Dad, I couldn’t give up that easily. I had learnt too much to just let it all go and that’s why I became Oracle - and why I have been ever since. I’m not on the streets anymore, I’m not wearing a mask, but I can still make a difference and you couldn’t begin to imagine how good that feels.

You do get that, right?


	5. Chapter 5

**PART TWO**

**DISSOLUTION**

**Thursday, April 28 th.**

**Clark Kent. Sullivan Place, New Troy, Metropolis. 07:00 EST.**

My alarm goes off with an unwelcome buzzing, and then seconds later the morning news switches on on the radio. In a bleary state, I swing an arm over to my bedside table and not for the first time I misjudge the strength in which I hit the snooze button and the radio shatters upon impact. Fifth one in as many weeks; Lois is going to kill me.

Glancing over to the left side of the bed I’m unsurprised to find my wife is not lying next to me. Lois has likely been up since five-thirty; gone for a morning run; showered, dressed, and made breakfast. If I had to guess; Eggs à la Lois. Soft boiled with a dash of seasoning, with fried green pepper and thinly sliced chorizo on a toasted bagel; likely sesame seed. A mug of black coffee to one side, the radio - which I’m not allowed to touch - on in the background, and she’s sorted; ready to face the day while I’m still sleeping.

She’s on the phone when I stagger into the kitchen ten minutes later, awkwardly smoothing out crinkles in the same shirt that I wore yesterday and shoving it into the pants of my suit. She smirks, and holds up a finger to tell me it’s an important call and not to interrupt.

‘I get that, Perry,’ she says, impatiently, ‘but I don’t know what else to tell you, it’s not like I know the guy personally…’ She pauses, and holds the phone a little away from her ear as our boss, Perry White, barks something back at her on the other end of the line. She rolls her eyes. ‘That may be,’ she says, ‘but I’m not going to Gotham on another phantom sighting of the Batman; I did all that twenty years ago and it wasn’t fun then… Yeah… Yes, Perry, I know… Yeah, Clark’s just gotten up, we’ll be there asap.’

‘He’s in the office early,’ I say, as Lois slides her phone into her handbag that sits on the table between her and a half eaten bagel.

She picks up the plate, pushes the remains of the bagel into my mouth, and says, ‘Batman was apparently spotted last night, fighting off a bunch of - well, what the witness described as mercenaries.’

‘Lex’s?’ I stutter, with a mouthful of half chewed bagel.

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘He’s got to be careful,’ I say, coughing slightly as I swallow. ‘Bruce, I mean. He’s tempting fate carrying on like this.’

‘ _You_ want to try talking to him?’

‘Point taken. Perry wants you in Gotham?’

‘What Perry wants and what Perry’s going to get are two different things,’ Lois says. ‘I’ve got two stories of hero-sightings on the go as it is, and God knows when I’m going to find the time to finish either one of them.’

She comes towards me, running her hands over the crinkled shirt. ‘You know, this shirt looks remarkably similar to the one you wore yesterday,’ she joshes. ‘You always made more of an effort to dress smartly when we weren’t married…’

‘When we weren’t married I was still trying to impress you,’ I point out.

She brings her lips inches from mine. ‘All you had to do was sweep me off my feet, Smallville…’

The moment is broken by the sound of sirens running down Sullivan; our windows rattle a little even though our apartment is several stories up. Ordinarily I would be out of those windows in a haze of red and blue, but ever since Lex’s martial law I’ve been forced to keep a low profile.

Lois looks at me; she knows what I’m thinking. She knows I want to get out there now, to say hell to Lex Luthor and his regime. But I’m scared. I’ve known Lex for years; our actions and our fates are as ingrained together as Bruce’s are to the Joker’s; passing a law like this he’s tempting me, goading me, telling me to play his game. He’s got something bigger planned and he’s telling me to come for him.

But those sirens… There’s trouble somewhere; here, in my city…

‘You could go,’ Lois suggests, gently.

‘You know I can’t.’

‘The city needs you, Clark. The world needs you. Let the people know that their Superman is still out there.’

‘Lois…’ I turn away. ‘The world hasn’t stopped spinning just because I stopped flying,’ I say. ‘Maybe… Maybe Lex has been right all these years. Maybe the world doesn’t need a Superman.’

Lois is silent for a few moments as she looks at me, a blazing heat in her eyes. When she speaks her tone is strong; stern. ‘Don’t you give me that,’ she says, fiercely. ‘Have you been out on those streets lately? Have you seen what Lex is doing to this country? Have you bothered to come down from this ivory tower you’ve positioned yourself in?’

‘Lois, I-’

‘The people are struggling!’ she cries. ‘Me and you? We’re fortunate in the money that we have but not everyone can benefit from a top Daily Planet salary! The cost of living does not match the average wage, Clark; homelessness is on the rise, the economy is collapsing under Luthor’s presidency and you’re telling me that the people don’t need you?’

‘I can’t fight poverty,’ I say.

‘But you can fight Lex.’

‘Lois, I don’t want him in the White House any more than you do but what am I supposed to do about that? Fly into the Oval Office, insist he confess for crimes he has committed? It’s what he wants me to do, don’t you see that? He wants me to call him out. He wants me to accuse him because he knows I have no proof; he knows I cannot touch him! For every person out there who knows what he’s like there’s two more who support him; two more who voted for him. Two more who buy into his lies about making the country great again!’ I sigh, then add: ‘Two more who want to see the power taken away from the heroes and back into the hands of the American people.’

‘These people are never going to see that power!’ Lois cries. ‘They’re puppets; puppets in Lex Luthor’s greed and madness!’

‘I know that!’ I respond. ‘ _I_ know that and _you_ know that but how do we make _them_ see that? The public see what they want to see, what _Lex_ wants them to see!’

Lois is silent for a moment. It’s hard to read her expression but I can tell she’s disappointed. ‘Clark, I love you,’ she says at last. ‘I love super-you and farm-boy-you, but right now you’re not either of them; right now I’m not sure who you are. Since when did Superman bow down to Lex Luthor?’

‘That’s unfair,’ I say, simply.

‘Your country turned it’s back on you, I get that,’ she says. ‘The very people you swore to protect voted your greatest enemy - the greatest tyrant the world has ever known - into office. They screwed up. But you said it yourself, Clark; they saw what Lex wanted them to see. They were naïve; they were scared; but look at this from their point of view. It seems we can’t go a week without aliens invading us, creatures attacking us - _heroes turning on us_ \- and Lex was saying all the right things to quell those fears. He gave people something different to believe in, something beyond capes and masks…’ She trails off, her fingers tracing the outline of the ‘S’ that once sat proudly on my chest. ‘You need to show them that this still means something.’

From the handbag, her phone rings again. She pulls it out and looks at it. ‘Perry,’ she says.

I hold out my hand. ‘Here,’ I offer, ‘I’ll talk to him.’

Lois hands the phone over, then finishes the rest of her coffee. I brace myself and answer the call. 

‘Kent? That you? Where the hell have y’ been?’

Perry’s voice echo’s round the room. A quick glance at my watch tells me I’m not even late; if he’s shouting this early it means something major is happening and Jimmy’s forgotten his morning coffee again - which would make it the second time this week.

‘It’s not even seven-thirty, Perry,’ I say, feigning a yawn. ‘I’m not coming in before nine.’ He’s not an unreasonable man, he’s just used to people sucking up to him. I’m one of the few he lets speak to him like this. Jimmy calls it a lack of respect; I call it calming the beast.

‘That’s alright, don’t need you to come in,’ Perry barks. ‘You didn’t hear the sirens? There’s been a hold up, the National Bank down on Second!’

It takes me a minute to clock why a bank would be open so early. The Second National is a twenty-four-hour bank, part of the city’s new scheme of ‘helpful banking’ that I’ve always thought just made them an easy target for late night robberies. Security on that place is top of the range however; it was supplied by LexCorp, one of the things Luthor oversaw personally before taking up office.

‘You’re my top guy, Kent,’ Perry continues. ‘Need you down there covering it; any luck and your pal Superman might just show up!’

Was that a hint? Perry’s a good reporter; too good to not have uncovered my secret by now - _if_ he was so inclined. He’s been itching for the ‘Superman Returns!’ story for weeks now; guaranteed money spinner for the paper. But even if he does know the truth I doubt he’d understand why I gave it up, and I don’t fancy getting into it with him.

‘Olsen’s on his way,’ Perry says. ‘Five minutes, Kent!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Get me a good headline!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Send Lois to Gotham!’

‘She’s on her way,’ I lie.

‘And get me a coffee!’

That one I don’t respond to. ‘I’ll see you later, Perry,’ I say, and hang up the phone.

Lois looks at me. ‘What’s going on?’

‘There’s a hold up at the bank down on Second,’ I tell her. ‘I should go.’

‘You mean…?’

‘ _Clark Kent_ should go,’ I tell her, firmly.

She turns away from me, violently swinging her handbag onto her shoulder as she does. ‘I think you’re making a mistake,’ she says, turning back to me from the front door. ‘I have to go to work. Anyone dies today, that’s on you.’

The door slams as she leaves. I close my eyes. In the distance I can hear the gathering of people outside the bank, then a mass of sirens heading in from all directions. I should be there. I know I should be there; and not as Clark Kent but as Superman. But I can’t… I can’t risk what Lex has planned…

I could be there within seconds of leaving the apartment; being faster than a speeding bullet has its advantages, especially in a city like Metropolis, but if I’m going to live as Clark Kent I’ve got to travel as Clark Kent would travel, and that means hailing down a taxi.

There’s a large gathering of people outside the bank when I get there. There’s a police barrier and a few curious bystanders but it’s mainly reporters, all desperate to be the first to get the story on what’s happened and all desperate to see if Superman might turn up.

The officer in charge is Michael Casey, a sergeant who trained under Maggie Sawyer and with whom Superman has had a somewhat unstable relationship. For some reason I never could get Casey to warm to me, he always seemed convinced that Superman was involved in whatever crime had happened to bring the two of us together, wouldn’t listen to reason even if it stared him in the face. Thankfully, Clark Kent has not shared that same history, even if he did once accuse Lois of murder.

‘Sergeant Casey!’ I call out, pushing to the front of the reporters and waving my notebook in his face. ‘Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Can you tell us what’s going on here?’

Casey looks at me. ‘No press,’ he says, blankly.

In spite of myself I use my x-ray vision to look through the walls of the bank to see what’s happening. I count four men, all armed, and a half dozen frightened attendants behind the desk. There’s a small number of victims laying face down on the floor with their arms behind their heads, but as far as I can see no one’s been seriously injured.

‘Sergeant Casey!’ I call again. ‘Can you confirm that there are hostages inside? Is there an attempt being made to get these people out?’

‘No comment, Kent!’ Casey replies. ‘Go back to writing editorials, will ya?’

As I watch, another two armed men walk out from the vault in the back, then another figure in a heavy brown trench coat, though I can’t make out who it is. He must be leading the operation, he’s not carrying a weapon and the others seem to be following whatever orders he’s giving. If the goons are taking orders from someone else I could probably rule this out as Lex’s doing, or he’s simply pulling all their strings from up high. I need to identify him, but his back’s to me and he’s got some sort of mask or hood covering his head.

I turn to a reporter next to me. ‘Anyone tried going in?’ I ask him.

‘Nah, no-one’s been in or out,’ the man replies. ‘The fellas here seem reluctant to send someone in to negotiate; reckon they’re still hoping the big boy in blue might turn up. If he did, o’ course, they’d be obliged to arrest him on the spot as well so I were him I’d stay well clear of this mess.’

‘They got demands?’ I ask.

‘The guys inside? Nah, they ain’t asked for nothin’, but they’ve shown signs of having explosives with them; prob’ly for the vault, y’know? There was a blast earlier but it don’t look like no-one was hurt.’

‘There another way in?’

The man guffaws. ‘Oh yeah? Fancy having a go at them yerself, do yer?’ Another laugh. ‘Who do I look like to you? City Planning? You want a story mate I suggest you do what the rest of us doing, get a nice strong coffee and wait for all this to kick off.’

I take the moment to think about it. There’s more chance of getting in unnoticed if I go around to the back - and taking out any guards they might have stationed there shouldn’t be a problem unless by some freak chance they’re carrying Kryptonite. But there’s something about the man in the trench coat, it makes me feel uneasy. If these thugs have a leader chances are he’s a professional, and he wouldn’t hit a bank in Metropolis without being prepared for _me_ , curfew or no curfew _._

But I’ve got to risk it. Lois is right. I won’t, I _can’t_ , let innocents die.

I’m not wearing my outfit. I’ve got to be careful about this; that man was right about the cops being legally obliged to arrest me on sight, and I daresay a few of them - like Sergeant Casey - will probably enjoy it.

I run round the back of the bank before anyone’s even noticed that I’ve gone - not that anyone there is paying particular attention to me, not even Sergeant Casey.

As suspected, I meet two men with heavy vests on standing guard outside the back door, both carrying assault rifles. Taking them out doesn’t prove a problem - it’s man versus super-man, after all - though neither of them appear startled by my presence and their reflexes are quick when they raise their weapons. Judging by their build, stance, and their getup I’d guess at military training, but who they are I can’t determine.

Another two immediately inside seem not to notice their partners fall, they only become aware of my presence as I break my way through the locked door. Like their colleagues, they’re both armed and armored, and out of instinct they open fire on me almost immediately without realizing they couldn’t possibly hurt me. I grin slightly as the bullets bounce off of me, ricocheting off in different directions and causing the men themselves to take cover. Sometimes it’s just too easy.

The men look almost panic stricken when they see their bullets are ineffective on me. In spite of myself, I give them a knowing grin then run to get behind them before they even realize I’ve gone. In a flash, I knock their heads together and let them crumple to the floor unconscious, then I make my way round the corner and past the open vault where I have a clear view into the main hall of the bank where everything is happening.

I stay hidden for now; I can’t afford to make a move just yet. No-one seems to have heard the gunfire from the guards at the door, but just as the reporter said there’s explosives all around the building, the detonator in the hands of the trench coated figure. I would survive the blast but I can’t imagine anyone else would, and I’ve got to assume that all of these guys are willing to die for whatever cause they have. They’re terrorists, but they’re American military so what their endgame is here I have no idea.

‘Let’s wrap it up people,’ the man in the trench coat barks suddenly, finally turning to my direction so I can get a look at his face. He can’t see me, but as he turns I see the mask he’s wearing isn’t a mask at all; they’re surgical bandages wrapped all around his head. I know who he is. His name is Thomas Elliot; he’s a childhood friend of Bruce Wayne’s who, at the age of ten, attempted to engineer the deaths of his own parents so that he might inherit their fortune. His is a prodigal and sadistic mind, at once a genius and a tyrant, and as a grown man he’s taken the guise of ‘Hush’ and vowed to exact his revenge upon Bruce; his hatred for his former friend born when Thomas Wayne, Bruce’s father, saved Elliot’s mother and stopped his heinous plan.

I have to make a move. Hush is dangerous. But before I can decide what to do I notice one of the bank’s security guards cautiously reaching for his gun. I pray for him to put it away, to not try to be the hero when there’s so many thugs around him, but before I know it he’s up; arms out, hands shaking. ‘Everybody freeze!’ he yells, asserting what little confidence he can muster.

Without missing a beat, Elliot turns and whips a handgun from within his coat, pointing it straight at the security guard. Within a second he has fired two rounds and I have no choice but to give up my hiding place in an attempt to stop the shells before they reach their target.

Faster than a speeding bullet I may be, but that isn’t always fast enough. I jump with my arm outstretched and the palm of my hand open in a desperate attempt to cover more distance but it means I slow down slightly, and even though I catch the bullets my cover is blown. The first bullet bounces off the tip of my index finger but at least it’s been forced off its original path; the second I manage to catch in my palm, barely feeling the scorch mark it leaves on my skin, but as a result of my move I drop to the ground, giving every spectator in the bank a good look at me.

‘Well, well, well,’ Elliot says, his voice gravelly and full of a sickening confidence. ‘I think we all know who this is, don’t we? _Superman_. I was wondering if you’d show up, though I never thought you’d be wearing a suit. My dear fellow, whatever happened to the tights? Wash day?’

‘Thomas Elliot,’ I say. ‘We thought you were dead.’

‘We? Ah, of course, your _friend_. How is the Bat? Still chasing cats?’

‘What do you want, Elliot?’ I ask. ‘This can’t be about money.’

‘There’s time for that,’ Hush replies. ‘Right now, however, I want you to greet our mystery guest.’ He grins, the bandages around his jaw shifting slightly as he does. ‘I did try and get hold of Kryptonite for our little meeting,’ he continues, ‘after all, one doesn’t come to Metropolis and not be prepared for you, regardless of how many laws might be in play…’ He heads behind the line of counters, still musing as he does so. ‘The rocks proved to be a little hard to get a hold of but we both know that’s not your only weakness, don’t we, _Clark_ …’

I know everyone around me is listening but there’s nothing I can do about that right now. Maybe my identity will get out, maybe it won’t, there’s too much at stake here for me to act too rashly. He reaches down behind the counter; his right hand still grips the detonator while his left pulls a figure up from the ground. A woman, tightly bound and with a hood over her head. He chuckles to himself as he pulls the woman closer towards him, guns from the goons around him all aimed at her chest. ‘The only other weakness for the Man of Steel,’ he says, addressing the crowd around us more than me directly. ‘That intrepid reporter, that Pulitzer Prize winner, _Lois Lane!_ ’

I almost don’t believe him, I mean I saw Lois a little more than half an hour ago, but then he pulls of the hood and I see the face of my wife, wide eyed and gagged. She looks at me, a rare look of fear and desperation in her eyes, and suddenly I’m filled with a rage and hatred towards this bandaged man and his gang of mercenaries. If he knows about me he knows about Lois; _he knows she’s my wife_.

And he knows I will _fight_ for her.

‘My quarrel is not with you, Superman,’ Hush says, quite casually. ‘You let me go, and the girl is unharmed.’

Negotiations. I hate negotiations; they never do go your way. I’ve got two options, and neither sound inviting. I can either fight and risk Lois getting shot, or I let the man go with the city’s money, praying he’s true to his word and frees Lois. And what did he mean by ‘my quarrels not with you’? Has he got a vendetta against someone else in the city, or is this all another ploy to get at Bruce?

‘I don’t have time to hang around, Superman. What will it be?’

‘The bombs,’ I say.

He laughs. ‘Oh, that’s what you’re worried about?’ He presses down on the trigger; I’m poised to run at him but to my great surprise and immediate relief, nothing happens. Another laugh. ‘They’re not real,’ he says. ‘Foam and wiring; I let off a little explosion earlier to keep the pigs at bay but that was nothing. Now, what will it be?’

‘Let everyone in here go free,’ I say. ‘They hold no more purpose for you.’

This is a long shot, no guarantee he’ll agree to my requests, but I’ll feel better knowing the innocents are safe. He considers it for a moment, but then agrees and the hostages are allowed to go free, and what’s more he throws Lois at my feet. Guns are still aimed at her, but it’s merely a precaution from the mercenaries to give Elliot time to move.

‘Well done, Man of Steel,’ he says. ‘You’ve won. Now if you’ll excuse me…’

He makes for the back exit; the same door I came in by. Curiously he leaves several of the bags that seemingly contain the money he would have taken from the vaults, taking with him only a small shoulder bag. I consider going after him but I can’t risk the potential firefight that will ensue if I do. Everyone, it seems, is too afraid to move; even the thugs are unsure what to do now.

With Lois leading, the hostages all make for the front door, and as they do the mercenaries make for the back. I was ready for this however, and I rush to the door and stop them from leaving. ‘The deal was for one,’ I say, my arms folded as I hear as the police enter the building from the main entrance, no doubt taking their cue from the leaving hostages. ‘Drop the guns.’

All of them hesitate, but they know it’s over. It’s only now that I get a good look at their uniforms; the padded armored vests that they’re wearing and the military grade uniform beneath. The word TYGER is printed across their backs, with small patches on the sleeves of their uniforms as well. I don’t want to think too much about who they might be right now though; I want to find Lois and make sure she’s alright, then I want to get to Gotham and talk to the man who might be able to give me some answers. Hush. Tyger. Lex… Something’s happening, something big, and if anyone has a clue as to what it’s Bruce.

I find Lois standing talking to Sergeant Casey outside; the man, it seems, blissfully oblivious to everything that happened inside. A few of the hostages are looking at me but it’s hard to tell what they’re thinking. All of them would have heard my name, I’d be surprised if one of them didn’t try selling the information to the media but there’s little that can be done to prevent that now. What will come will come and I’ll face it when it does.

I take Lois in my arm and together we walk away from the bank, and then when I’m sure we’re cleared I pick her up and launch us up into the air. ‘There he is,’ Lois says to me, softly. ‘There’s my Superman.’

‘Are you alright?’ I ask her when we’re safely back on the balcony of our apartment.

‘Fine,’ she replies. ‘Honestly, I am.’

‘What happened? I thought you were going to work?’

‘I was. They grabbed me when I was barely out the door; whoever this guy was he must have been watching us.’

I take a cautionary look around but nothing seems out of the ordinary. ‘Elliot,’ I say. ‘His name’s Thomas Elliot.’

‘The surgeon?’ Lois asks. ‘The one that was behind that stuff with Ivy a couple of years back?’

‘The very same.’

‘I thought he was dead?’

‘Bruce says they never found a body, and you know what these guys are like. More lives than a cat.’

‘You think he was working for Lex?’ Lois asks.

‘I don’t know, but I need to have a word with Bruce.’

‘Be careful,’ Lois warns. ‘You might not want to get too far into this.’

I kiss her, and try for what I hope is a reassuring smile. ‘Honestly,’ I say. ‘I fear I already am.’


	6. Chapter 6

**Bruce Wayne. The Cave. 08:44 EST.**

I open my eyes to find myself sitting in front of the computer in the cave, still dressed in the mantle of the bat with only the cowl hanging loose. It’s takes a moment for everything to come back to me. The thugs at the jewelry store; Tyger; Ashworth; Alan Burns. I came back to the cave last night to try and piece everything together; must have fallen asleep at the computer again.

‘Any luck, sir?’ asks Alfred Pennyworth in his usual dry tone, coming down from the stairs with a silver platter in his hands containing a steaming mug of coffee and a sandwich.

I have known Alfred my whole life. He was hired by my father and continued to look out for me even after my parents were shot, officially becoming my legal guardian. Over the years he has aided me more than anyone else; he hasn’t always liked what I do but he’s always supported me, always cared for me, always been there for me. He’s my most trusted ally in this ongoing fight against crime, and above all of that he’s my friend.

‘Nothing I can link back to Luthor,’ I reply, taking the coffee but leaving the sandwich.

The screen in front of me is vast; every inch covered in reports, legal records, media headlines; every bit of information I’ve got on Lex, Tyger, and now Hugo Strange. Somehow they’re all connected but I can’t find anything that links them. Not for the first time I have underestimated Lex Luthor and his ability to cover his tracks.

‘Sir, you had a phone call,’ Alfred tells me.

‘Was it important?’

‘A Mister Clark Kent,’ he says, with a trace amount of pleasure in his tone. ‘I must say, I’m glad you’re still keeping in touch; here I was thinking Luthor’s cull meant you had severed all connection with the super friends.’

‘Thank-you, Alfred,’ I growl. ‘Was there a message?’

‘More a heads up,’ Alfred replies. ‘He said it was a matter of some urgency and that he wants to speak to you in person at some point today. Being faster than a speeding bullet, it would be remiss of me not to point out that he could be here at any minute…’

My relationship with Clark is turbulent at best. We have worked together for years, both as part of the Justice League and outside of it, and though we both recognize each others accomplishments it’s hard to look past the fact we’re two very different people. I once told Selina - _Catwoman_ \- he’s the best there is at what he does. She said it was open to debate; I told her he’s the best there is at what _he_ does, not what _I_ do. I am not a hero. I am not an idol. Many in our field who look up to Clark would cower from me and I like it that way. Clark is the optimist and I am the pessimist, and yet we are two sides of the same coin and the work we have done together only demonstrates that we are better as one than as individuals. I will never admit it to him but even I can look up to him on some level; even _I_ believe in the power of the Superman…

But I have never been one for pleasantries.

*

He arrives at the house a little over an hour later and I am dismayed somewhat to see him arrive by cab, and wearing a two-piece business suit and not - well - the _other_ one. I know Luthor’s regime affected him; I know he took it more personally than any other in our position and I know he’s been lying low; but if there was ever a time the world needed an idol like him it’s now - and he’s apparently still scared by what he can do.

Alfred leads him down to the cave. Out of instinct I wear the cowl again, and I don’t move from my position at the computer as a means not to give him my full attention. It’s easier this way; for both of us.

‘I gave you the codes to the cave for a reason,’ I tell him.

‘And I gave you the _ring_ ,’ Clark replies. ‘I’d call it even.’

‘I meant-’

‘I know what you meant,’ he says, swiftly. ‘We’re supposed to be lying low, remember?’

‘Only if you listen to Luthor.’

‘Bruce…’ he starts. ‘Whatever it is you’ve got going on, you’re tempting fate. You made the news again this morning - Perry could barely contain his excitement; it was twenty-years ago all over again. “Confirmed sighting of the vigilante known as The Batman…” Anything you want to tell me?’

‘Why are you here, Clark?’ I ask, bluntly.

‘Bruce…’

I pull some press footage I collected about an hour ago, of the attempted bank heist in Metropolis this morning. I finally turn to look at Clark, to study the features on his face. ‘I assume this is what you want to talk about,’ I say. ‘Heist foiled by mysterious savior; thugs rounded up; seventeen personal vaults raided, only one item missing. Your work?’

‘Bruce, it was Thomas Elliot.’

His words hit me at a thousand miles-per-hour; anger that was buried deep within me resurfaces. My childhood friend who turned my life upside down a couple of years ago; who disappeared into the stormy waters of Gotham Harbor and never resurfaced. I thought he was dead. I _hoped_ he was dead. I was intrigued when I heard the news about the bank; wondered who would be fool enough to pull such a stunt in Metropolis - even in the current climate you don’t go to the that city and not be prepared for Clark. Now I know. I thought it would be a metabeing; Metallo or someone similar; I never dreamed it would be…

‘Tommy,’ I growl.

World-class surgeon, first-rate sociopath. He helped heal Harvey Dent; he performed the surgery that restored Harvey’s scarred face and with it buried the psychotic second personality known as Two Face. Barbara tried reasoning to me that in losing a friend that I thought I had in Tommy I actually regained a friendship I long thought lost in Harvey, but I have played little part in Harvey’s rehabilitation whereas I have spent much energy trying to track down Tommy. It’s been two years; he’s been silent for two years…

‘I’m going to stay, Bruce,’ Clark says. ‘Even without using my x-ray vision I can read your expression beneath the cowl. Something’s going on, and you’re going to need my help.’

‘I-’

He pulls something out of his pocket and throws it to me. A cloth; a patch that reads ‘Tyger’.

‘I pulled that from one of the guys at the bank,’ Clark tells me. ‘You know who these guys are?’

Reluctantly, I fill Clark in on everything that happened last night, and my theories that the guys who attacked us were ordered there by Lex. Tyger, Ashworth, Burns, Luthor… I’ve repeated the four names in my head over and over again in the past few hours, hoping something clicks into place and I can relate them. Detective work is about having all the pieces of the jigsaw and trying to find the image contained without any reference to work from. It’s not impossible, but it’s difficult.

A part of me doesn’t want to involve Clark but from what he tells me Tommy had Lois and that’s made it personal for him. At this point I’d be foolish not to accept the help offered; two heads are better than one and Clark can be extremely useful to have around - _not_ that I ever tell him that.

‘We can talk to the guys that were arrested,’ Clark suggests, hopeful.

‘They won’t talk,’ I tell him. ‘I know the type.’

‘Burns?’

‘Nightwing is looking into him.’

‘Then that leaves…’

‘Hugo Strange,’ I finish. ‘Clark, I… It’s _dangerous_ for me to approach him. He knows my identity; he’s obsessed with me. If he’s planning something he’s already countered in my involvement. He’s studied me, he knows my methods; he would’ve made plans for every contingency.’

‘Then we don’t play to his hands,’ Clark says. ‘He’s in Arkham? He’s expecting you, not me. He’s planned for _you_ ; he’s _never_ planned for me.’

‘I can’t let you-’

‘I wasn’t raised by you, Bruce. I’m not a Robin, I’m not a part of the family. You don’t have to let me.’

‘And Elliot? We still have no idea what he took from the vault, or who it originally belonged to.’

‘Something tells me he’ll present himself eventually,’ Clark replies. ‘I should go.’

He turns to leave; I call him back.

‘Clark…’ I want to say thank-you but the words don’t form. I don’t want to admit to him that for once I don’t have a play in mind; that we’re facing the unknown with the world’s most dangerous minds and it scares me. I almost killed the Joker as a result of playing Elliot’s games before; if it wasn’t for Jim Gordon I would’ve crossed a line I swore never to touch. I’m unsure what Elliot, Strange, or Lex have in mind for me and that thought alone terrifies me.

‘Don’t play to his games,’ I say at last. ‘He’ll try and make it personal, don’t let him. His weakness may be his love and his hatred towards me, use it against him.’ I pause. ‘I don’t know how much Strange knows about you already; don’t give away any more than you have to.’

‘I won’t.’

‘And check in with me or Oracle regularly.’ I hand him a small, black, earpiece. ‘Take this transmitter; you’ll get straight through to the Clock Tower on the new frequency.’

He takes it from me, but doesn’t say anything.

‘And Clark,’ I add.

‘Yeah?’

‘Wear the damn suit.’

He grins, and for the briefest of moments I see the man he was before all of this; I see the Superman in him again. And then he’s gone, faster than a speeding bullet, down the access passage I use for the Batmobile.

I remove the mask from my face and breathe a huge sigh then make my way back up towards the manor. I need a shower.

**Dick Grayson. Blüdhaven, Central Business District. 09:25 EST.**

I’ve been up since six, wearing my civvies and scrolling through folders and folders in the City of Blüdhaven Corporation Record Office but turning up nothing. I even got on the phone to someone at the Department of State but was reminded that Ashworth was a private company and the State of New Jersey doesn’t require by law for the company to make any of their records available to the public. I did consider trying again and posing as a state official - I had, after all, already broken into the city’s record office - but I realized that perhaps I was looking into the wrong thing.

Ashworth isn’t the puzzle. It’s the guy who founded it…

It turns out Alan Burns wasn’t born in Gotham, he was born right here in the ‘Haven and lived but a stone’s throw from Melville Park. He was the only son of Madison and Arthur Burns, both stockbrokers, both long since dead. Before moving to Gotham and joining Gordon’s special forces he did two tours with the military; and a quick check into his school history and a phone call to some of his old schoolmates told me he was always destined for service. Quarterback for the school team, rigid as a lamppost, a stickler for rules and order - keen to break out from the life his parents seemed to want for him, and keen to serve his country.

By all accounts, the parents were proud and supportive, but his father died in a hit and run when Burns was on active duty in Iran and his mother followed several weeks later - reports suggesting she simply couldn’t cope on her own. No immediate relatives to speak of, no trail there for me to follow; but already knowing he ended up in Gotham - on Jim Gordon’s special forces unit - I take the most logical route I can think of. If he became a cop he would likely have started on his home ground, and however corrupt they may have been, even the Blüdhaven P.D keeps records of everything.

The question I want answering is how a seemingly dead man is heading up the country’s biggest private security firm and to do that I should really talk to Jim Gordon; the only man who can confirm that Burns is dead. Before I head up to Gotham, however, it’s worth seeing if my old badge is still worth any sway and can get me ten minutes with Captain Rohrbach and access to the B.P.D records.

* 

I get to my old precinct at a little past ten, and thankfully the officer on the front desk is an old cohort. He’s a disheveled man in his early forties, with a mop of curly auburn hair and a constant frown upon his brow. He doesn’t immediately recognize me when he sees me, but a moment later he lets out a short grunt of a laugh that can just about be interpreted as a ‘welcome back’ of sorts.

‘Hey, Deakins,’ I say, cheerily.

‘If it isn’t the former Officer Grayson,’ Deakins replies, with a slight smirk. ‘Come to report a crime or you just come begging for your job back?’

‘Neither,’ I reply, casually. ‘The Captain in? I’d like a word.’

I joined the Blüdhaven P.D several years ago to try and get to the bottom of their infamous corruption, but it was a harder task than I ever thought possible. Until recently, Blüdhaven was controlled by a vicious crime lord named Roland Desmond, or Blockbuster as he preferred to be known: a discounted Lex Luthor with his steroid-induced hands in several of the city’s pies - including the B.P.D. During my time at the force I met only a few honest cops who wanted Blockbuster finished and the city returned to the people as much as I did. One of those few was Amy Rohrbach, a fiery but honest and loyal cop, and devoted wife and mother, who was promoted to captain following the death of our former chief (and employee of Roland Desmond) Francis Redhorn. With Amy’s help I exposed the P.D and Blockbuster for what they were, but in trusting her I shared with her the secret of my double life, and although she promised to keep it a secret she said I could no longer serve the P.D without my life as Nightwing interfering.

That was four months ago, and I haven’t seen her since.

Deakins takes me through the building, to the Captain’s office on the second floor. I thank him and he offers another grunt in acknowledgement, and then sucking up all my pride and taking a deep breath I knock on the captain’s door and push it open.

The expression of the woman who sits behind the desk is hard to read. She doesn’t appear angry at the sight of me but neither does she exactly appear welcoming, or happy at my sudden appearing act. She’s a few years older than me; I’ve never explicitly asked but I always hazarded a guess at around thirty-six or thirty-seven. There’s more lines around her eyes now than there was when I last saw her but there’s still a youthful beauty to her features, and were she ever to smile I might even call her attractive.

‘Grayson?’ she says, frowning a little.

‘Sarge,’ I grin, intentionally dropping any professionalism I may have held as an officer in her employ.

‘That’s Captain Rohrbach to you,’ she replies, but the traces a twitch appear in the corner of her mouth nonetheless.

‘And I asked you repeatedly to call me Dick,’ I respond.

She sighs. ‘You haven’t changed,’ she says, coming from round the desk to shake my hand in a courteous manner. ‘What can I do you for you, Rookie?’

She’s not one for idle chat, never has been. I decide it’s best to just get straight to it. ‘I’m looking for information on a former officer,’ I say. ‘He was with special forces up in Gotham but he was born here; chances are he trained in our academy if anywhere.’

‘I see,’ Amy replies. ‘School project, is it?’

‘Something like that. I’d really appreciate the help.’

‘Dick, you understand you’re not an officer here any more, right? You’re a civilian. The ‘Haven P.D is not a public library, our records are private and confidential.’

‘I’m not asking as an officer; I’m asking as-’

‘A superhero?’

I look at her, my smile gone. ‘A friend,’ I finish, simply.

‘Is that what we are?’

‘I hope so.’

I move around to her desk and perch on the edge, picking up a framed photograph of her family. ‘How’s Jimmy?’ I ask, thinking back to when the photograph was taken, at a family barbecue her husband had organized. It was the first time I met her family, a newly appointed officer and partnered with the then-sergeant now standing before me.

‘He’s fine,’ Amy replies, simply.

‘And the kids?’

‘They’re doing well.’ She moves closer and takes the photograph from my hands. She studies it for a minute herself, and when she speaks again her tone of voice has changed. It’s softer; almost sadder. ‘They keep asking me to take them to Disney World,’ she says, with a slight laugh. ‘I can’t even remember the last time I had a day off.’

‘You’re doing good work,’ I point out. ‘What this place was… What it is now… Blüdhaven owes you a debt.’

She laughs again, louder this time. ‘Yeah, right. I’m sure the Mayor will offer me the keys to the city any day now.’ She sighs. ‘Sometimes I envy you,’ she continues. ‘Slip into those tights of yours and you’re free to do this job any way you please.’

‘Amy, have you-’ I start.

‘I haven’t told a soul,’ she says, reassuringly. She puts the picture back on the desk, then looks up at me with a small smile. ‘Alright, Rookie,’ she says at last. ‘Let’s see if I can’t help the great ‘Nightwing’ in a quest for justice.’

She moves back round behind her desk, then pulls her desktop keyboard towards her. ‘If your guy was ever a cop here he’ll be in our system. What’s the name?’

‘Burns, Alan.’

‘Burns…’ she murmurs, typing the name as she says it. ‘Alan…’ Within an instant a personnel file flashes up on the screen, with the image of a man looking older than I knew him to be; his silvery blond hair in a military buzz-cut beneath the peaked hat of the uniform; his face gaunt, years of service etched into every line. Looking at him, it’s easy to believe the horrors of war caught up with him. ‘You’re in luck,’ Amy says. ‘He joined up straight after leaving the special forces, hired by the B.P.D and put through academy training on our dime… Passed with flying colors, Christ he got a better score than me… Officer with us for five years before transferring to Gotham…’

‘What about his service record?’ I ask. ‘Discrepancies, awards, reprimands… I mean, what kind of cop was he?’

‘Let’s have a look…’ She trails off, clicks through a few more folders on the screen then says, ‘Okay, that’s weird.’

‘What is?’

‘Dick, there’s nothing here… No service record at all… Ordinarily we keep records of everything; hell, your file probably reads like a Michael Connelly novel, but this guy wasn’t just squeaky clean he didn’t exist…’

‘What are you saying?’

‘You’re the detective, but if you ask me someone’s wiped his files… Someone doesn’t want us digging anything up.’

My mind races. ‘Can you cross reference something else for me?’ I ask.

‘That depends…’

‘About twelve years ago Burns left the Gotham P.D after being diagnosed with PTSD, and he came straight back to the ‘Haven and set up a private security firm called Ashworth…’

‘Ashworth?’

‘Is there anything in the records with that name? Any report, investigation?’

‘Unlikely, but I know the name… Ironically, I looked into private security myself - before Redhorn was killed, when Blockbuster was at his heights… I was scared, you know? I didn’t know how deep the corruption within the precinct went; I didn’t know if I could even trust _you_ to start with… I had a family to think about, and my work meant I couldn’t always be around…’

‘So what happened?’

‘I met you. The _other_ you, I mean. The real you. Suddenly I felt safer, knowing there was a bona fide superhero in Blüdhaven…’

‘And Ashworth…?’

‘Looked legit, one of the few companies Desmond didn’t have his claws in.’

‘Thanks, Amy,’ I say, getting up and making for the door. ‘I should go; I’m heading up to Gotham this afternoon.’

‘Back to the homestead,’ Amy states. ‘Thought you hated going back there?’

‘Needs must,’ I reply.

‘What about that girl of yours? Weren’t you involved with the daughter of the commissioner or something?’

I stop at the door. My mind’s been on Barbara all day; part of me relishes this chance to talk about her but what I would say I have no idea. My relationship with Barbara has always been tumultuous at best, and yet no-one else has ever been there for me like she has - or as long as she has. I think about the number of people I know who have been able to maintain a steady relationship within the chaos of the world in which we live and the number is sadly low, but here’s a woman who’s been happily married now for years; who raised children in a city as damaged and broken as Blüdhaven. Amy may not wear a mask but she wears a uniform; she fights the good fight as much as any of us, and if she can do it…

‘It’s complicated,’ I say, finally.

‘Things always are with you,’ Amy replies.

I turn to go once more, but once more I stop in the doorway and look back. Something hangs in the back of my mind; like an itch that I need to scratch. ‘Why’d you never give me the ultimatum?’ I ask.

‘Hmm?’

‘When you said my being Nightwing would interfere with my work here,’ I explain. ‘You told me to leave, but you never gave the ultimatum; Nightwing, or the force.’

‘Because I knew you’d never choose the force,’ Amy says. ‘You were a good cop, Dick, but you never wanted this life. Tell you the truth I’m surprised you’re still in the ‘Haven at all, figured you would have stretched those proverbial wings of yours and flown the coup by now. Tell me honestly, Dick, do you really want to still call Blüdhaven your home?’

I look at her as I consider an answer. I honestly don’t know if I could call this place my home or not. It has been for many years, but so was Gotham, and my life with the Titans led me to New York so often I’ve even considered having my own place there as well. Fact is, I’m a circus boy at heart; I went where the circus went, I lived on the road. Could I really settle down in one place? Where would that even be? Could I do what Bruce does; live out of a manor, operate in a cave?

‘Don’t be a stranger, Dick Grayson,’ Amy says, saving me from answering and dismissing me at the same time.

*

My apartment’s up on Avalon Hill, in the northern-most part of the city. It’s a modest size but I’ve never been very good at maintaining it: it’s a mess, it needs a clean, but for the amount of time I spend there and the amount of visitors I don’t get somehow it just doesn’t seem worth it.

I make the drive from the precinct to my door in less in twenty minutes, gives me time to shower and pull on a fresh white shirt and a pair of jeans before I head up to Gotham. The shirt’s creased; it sits atop a pile of clothes I tell myself will see the iron eventually, but I’ve never been so good at the little things in life. I feel more comfortable on a grander scale. Besides, who am I dressing to impress? Bruce? Barbara? They’ve seen me at my absolute best and my absolute worst, I don’t think they particularly care too much what I’m wearing.

I grab a few more clothes and throw them into my backpack, along with my Nightwing outfit should I need it. Keys, jacket, helmet… From here to Gotham it’s about a half-hour drive on my bike up Highway 61 and the Gotham Road; coming into the city on the south-west corner for the quickest access to Gotham central. Through Tricorner, Chinatown, down Conway Avenue to Barbara’s Clock Tower on Fifth. I could drive out to the manor if I wanted to but given the choice between sharing what I’ve found out with Barbara or with Bruce, I’ll go with the one who can least smile when talking to me.

Amy’s words fill my head, and I keep asking the question over and over in my mind. Do I honestly still want to call Blüdhaven my home? She said it. _‘Figured you would have stretched those proverbial wings… Flown the coup by now…’_ She saw something, something I’m not seeing.

 _‘Back to the homestead… Weren’t you involved with the daughter of the commissioner…’_ I can’t shake the feeling that Barbara’s not doing all that well right now, however much she tries to hide it. She sounded really shaken up when I spoke to her last night and I hate hearing her talk like that. Something’s going on; it’s not just the memory of the Joker it’s something else, something she’s not telling me.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I just miss her. Maybe I’m looking for an excuse just to see her…

Maybe all I’m doing is leaving one crime-ridden city for another. Not exactly the perfect summer vacation.


	7. Chapter 7

**Oracle. The Clock Tower, Gotham Central. 12:13 EST.**

‘Barbara?’

I jump and spin the chair around. Who… ‘Dick!?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I didn’t mean to surprise you.’ His face is illuminated by the afternoon sun that shines through the giant class clock face that takes up the entirety of the front wall, his dark hair characteristically unkempt but his soft smile warm and welcoming. There’s shadows under his eyes; he’s either had a rough night or an early start, but regardless of what he looks like I’m thankful to see him - not that I’m going to tell him that.

‘How did you-’ I start, recognizing that he’s wearing casual clothes. ‘Wait, did you grapple up here in broad daylight looking like _that_?’

He grins a sheepish grin. ‘From the rooftop’s opposite,’ he tells me. ‘Old habits, you know?’

‘Quite,’ I say, a little impressed and embarrassed for him at the same time. ‘You know there’s a perfectly good elevator, right? Some pretty nice stairs as well, from what I hear.’

‘I’ll remember that next time,’ he says, stepping from the balcony door in which he stands and hopping down into my control room proper. ‘Can we talk?’

There’s something in his voice that soothes me, it always has. Even when I’ve been so mad at him I’ve wanted to throw him from the balcony he’s just stepped in from I could be taken in by the sound of voice; and more often than not that made me madder. 

‘Yeah,’ I say, with a smile. ‘You’re getting better you know - the sudden appearing acts. Bruce taught you well.’

We head away from the control room, through the hidden door that takes me into my apartment proper, settling in the small lounge area beneath an open skylight. I have no use for these couches myself; I use them for when Dad comes to visit, and I can’t suppress a soft smile as I see Dick sit down in the same armchair that Dad always likes.

For a moment there’s silence between us, but there’s something bothering Dick that he’s having trouble coming to grips with. I know he can read me like a book, but I’ve learnt to read his expressions pretty well myself - better than anyone save, perhaps, Batman. He’s not as good at controlling his features as he likes to think he is. His brow furrows without him realizing when he’s concerned about something; and his eyes, usually so vibrant, so joyous, never quite seem to dance the way they usually do.

‘Barbara…’ he finally says.

The way he said my name then, he didn’t call me Babs… ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, seriously.

He smiles. ‘I made the decision to come up here to ask you that very same thing,’ he says. ‘Then on my way here I guess I had a few revelations.’

Dick’s opening up. This really must be serious. ‘You know you can tell me,’ I say.

‘Last night, when you spoke to me, you said you were dreaming of the night…’ I’m strangely thankful that he doesn’t say it; I don’t need to be reminded again now. ‘I was worried for you, Babs,’ he continues. ‘When you signed off I had so many things rush through my head that I wanted to say to you. Things that, deep down, I have wanted to say for a very long time.’

I want to let him know he can say anything to me but I would just be repeating myself. He’s going to tell me, but he’ll do it in his own time. I don’t want to rush him.

‘Barbara, will you marry me?’

‘What?!’

Okay, that took me by surprise. Is he serious? Is he really… I look at his face and I have never seen him look more serious in all the years I’ve known him, but there’s something almost childlike in his look. Is it desperation? Fear? Dick Grayson; acrobat, daredevil. Fearful is not a word often used to describe him, and yet…

‘I went back to my old precinct earlier,’ he says, ‘spoke to my old partner. She made me think about a few things, about what I want my life to be, what I want to take from it. Weirdly it got me thinking about Clark, about how different him and Bruce really are. I wonder sometimes if Bruce will ever put as much trust into someone as Clark did with Lois; or Wally did with Linda. I wonder if I’m more like Bruce or more like Wally; if I’m a Bat or a Titan. Then I realized that I already made that decision long ago, I’ve just never acted on it.’

‘Dick, I…’

‘Let me finish,’ he says, quickly. ‘I’ve never found it easy to connect to people for long periods of time, but I think that a part of that is because I grew up with Bruce. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for everything he did, but I think about what life would have been like had I grown up with my real parents. I became Nightwing because I wasn’t like Bruce, not really. I might lead by his example sometimes but I have to believe I can cut my own path, that I don’t have to alienate myself to everyone like he has.’

Is that where the fear has come from? Because he finds it hard to connect? I’m reminded of everything he has been through, how his parents were killed just like Bruce’s - just like mine were, I suppose. But I grew up feeling the warmth of a loving surrogate, whereas Dick was drafted into another man’s war, sheltered only beneath the wing of a bat…

‘For a long time I stood at the bottom of this building before I came up,’ he starts. ‘I was thinking about everything - about you, about me, about the lives we have chosen to lead. I have no idea how easy this will be, but somehow Clark has made it work, and Wally’s happier than I’ve ever known him. When I heard your voice last night I realized…’ he cringes slightly, then laughs as though he didn’t plan to say what he’s about to. ‘Realized how much I wanted to be with you,’ he finishes, faintly.

He doesn’t look at me, but I don’t remove my eyes from him. A million logical thoughts rush through my head but surprising myself I ignore all of them. His words aren’t exactly Shakespeare but it doesn’t matter. My mind is made up.

**Dick Grayson. The Clock Tower, Gotham Central. 12:42 EST.**

I don’t dare to look at her, scared of what I might see. Have I just ruined things between us completely? I consider apologizing and just getting up and going, but there’s also a part of me that screams at me to stay. But there’s no way she’ll say yes. In fact, now I come to think of it, it’s a stupid idea. I mean, what? Am I going to move into the Clock Tower, make this our happy home? It’s crazy, I…

‘So, do I get a ring?’

I look up, slowly; eyes widening with anticipation. I see her smiling, and not mockingly. Her smile is genuine; warm and loving. I’m almost at a loss for words. She looks amazing in the soft glow of the room, the light casting off of her long crimson hair and highlighting all the natural colors. Does this…?

Her hand touches my cheek and suddenly all my doubts are gone. ‘Does this mean…?’ I say, aloud.

‘Yes,’ she says with a laugh, rolling her eyes a little as she does so. ‘Honestly, I thought you were a detective?’

‘I love you,’ I say; half knowing that it doesn’t need to be said but allowing the words to escape me regardless. ‘And I know it hasn’t worked between us before but we’ve never really tried. When you came to me in the desert last year, when I was on that race with Tim… Or during the No Man’s Land when I stayed here and you patched me up… All those nights we’ve been allowed to spend together, I haven’t been able to get any of them out of my mind, I…’ I’m babbling now. I don’t need to say anything; I think - _I_ _know_ \- she gets the picture.

‘What will you do?’ Barbara asks. ‘Will you leave Blüdhaven, move to Gotham again? You know I can’t leave the Clock Tower; Batman needs me here.’

‘I know,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll talk to Bruce, tell him everything, then I’ll see about leaving Blüdhaven and settling in here. I may even look into joining the force again; become a bona fide officer of the G.C.P.D…’

‘I should call Dad, get him to come over.’

Her words remind me why I came up to Gotham in the first place. ‘Your dad!’ I exclaim, smacking myself. ‘That’s why I came, I need to talk to him! All that stuff with Burns, remember?’ I proceed to tell her everything that I found out about Burns, and everything that my trip to the B.P.D turned up earlier. When I’m finished she remains silent, lulling things over in her head.

‘What do think?’ I ask.

‘I’m not sure,’ she says, honestly. ‘I’ll call Dad; we’ll talk to him.’

‘Will you wait, though? Let me see Bruce first; he doesn’t even know I’m in Gotham. I’ll be back in a while, I promise.’

I get up to leave, but she holds me back and presses her lips against mine. Memories come flooding back: a night on the Gotham docks when we were younger; Barbara patching me up after the siege at Blackgate… I’m lying with her on the rafters in the circus; I’m holding her in my arms after her brother has… Wait … this… This isn’t a memory; this can’t be a memory. I’m… I’m Batman; I’m wearing the suit… I’m… Barbara’s been stabbed; I’m cauterizing the wounds. I’m telling her to stay conscious, she’s telling me not to let her brother get away…

I break the kiss, visibly shaken and confused. ‘What is it?’ she asks me, frowning.

‘I…’ I’m not sure how to find the words. I’m not sure what to think. She has one hand on mine and it’s warm; I don’t want to break apart but I’m scared; for the first time ever I’m scared of being with her, scared of my own memories and what they might mean… I stand and I feel her hand slide off of mine and back on to her lap. She looks as confused as I am but I don’t know what to say other than, ‘I have to go. I’ll be back soon.’

‘Dick?’ I’m halfway to the door when she calls me back.

I turn. It must be hard for her, not being able to stand to see me go, but as I look at her I don’t see sorrow like I expect, I see fear; worry. I’m reminded of who she is; the strength she shows to not let the chair be a part of this moment. She’s not concerned about standing up she’s concerned about what’s just happened to me.

I tell myself I’ll explain everything to her later.

I lean down to kiss her forehead, and then exit the Clock Tower by way of the stairs.

**Tim Drake. Gotham University, School of Advanced Sciences. 13:33 EST.**

I close my eyes and lean back against a tree, basking in the warm sunlight. Don’t get many days like this, especially not with the kind of weather we’ve been having. There are only a few minutes until I know I have to be back inside; Professor Johnson’s lecture on criminal sciences - which, to be fair, I’ve been looking forward to, but it takes a great effort to move from this point all the same. I just want to stay here, my back against this tree, feeling the warm glow of the sun on my face. I want to fall asleep without having to worry about second period. I want to wake up and have everything be normal; I want to enjoy being Robin again without this sense of guilt I’ve formed ever since dad found out about me; ever since Luthor’s regime was put in place… 

‘Hey, Drake!’

I groan when I hear the voice; partly out of frustration at being disturbed and partly out of recognition of the speaker. Tyrone Jones; he went to school with me, and he followed me to Gotham U. because he couldn’t decide what else he wanted to do - taking half the same classes as me but understanding, perhaps, only every other word. He’s a good guy but not terribly bright; he’s arguably the only friend I have here but he does have a habit of calling on me to find out what the course assignments are; and then getting me to explain them to him.

‘Not now, Tyrone,’ I say, not wanting to open my eyes and raising a reluctant hand with a motion for him to go away. ‘I need sleep.’

‘You’re always tired when you come in, man. What’s up with that?’

I hear him chuck his bag down at my feet and I figure it’s no use telling him to go. His large shape blocks the sunlight, casting a shadow on me and forcing me to - regrettably - open my eyes. He sits down next to me, slapping the palm of his right hand on mine in his usual form of greeting.

‘What’s up?’ I ask, ignoring his question.

‘Not heard the news?’ he asks me. ‘It’s all over the school.’

‘Didn’t hear anything,’ I reply. ‘Why, what is it?’

‘Field trip, man!’ he says, clearly excited at the prospect of a day off. ‘Tomorrow!’

‘Tyrone, we’re in college,’ I point out. ‘You know we’re free to come and go at our leisure, right?’

‘Not to Washington we aren’t,’ he says.

‘Washington?’ I ask.

‘That’s right, baby!’ he exclaims, excitedly. ‘We’re going to the White House!’

The White House? Gotham University is funding a visit to the house of Luthor? ‘What?’ I ask, legitimately surprised. ‘What class?’

‘Business 101!’ Tyrone says.

‘Tyrone, I don’t take Business 101,’ I point out.

‘But I do, and I put your name down for this.’

‘Why? You’re nineteen, you don’t need me to hold your hand.’

‘Come on, Drake! Aren’t you always going on about how Luthor’s screwing up the country? Aren’t you the one who said just last week that if he really wanted to make America great again he’d resign and let someone who actually cared about the nation take over? This is your chance, man! March into his house and show him a bit of the Tim Drake debating skills! Dude, you’re like the best business mind we have in this school and you don’t even take Business!’

I’m at once impressed that Tyrone listened to - and _remembered_ \- my latest rant about Luthor, and at the same time amused by his idea that I could stroll into the White House and expect an audience with the president himself - but I don’t say anything. I’m not sure I’d want to face Washington right now even if I didn’t have first-hand knowledge that Lex Luthor is playing the country for his own personal gain.

But then there was those Tyger goons last night… Bruce reckons they were working for Luthor and I’m inclined to agree, and if he sent them it can’t be chance I’ve somehow ended up with a means to face the man himself… It’s ether a remarkable coincidence or it’s a trap, and where Luthor is concerned it’s never a coincidence…

I need to get out of here. I need to speak to Bruce.

‘What’s up Drake, aren’t you excited? We’re getting a whole day off school, Dude!’

‘College,’ I say, absentmindedly. ‘A whole day off… Never mind. Listen, I’m not feeling all that great; I think I might take the rest of the day, head home and rest up, y’know? Can you tell Professor Johnson for me?’

‘Sure thing,’ Tyrone says, a little affronted. ‘You’ll come though, right? Tomorrow?’

I nod, then get up and swing my bag over my shoulder. ‘Yeah, sure,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll be there, just need a good night’s sleep.’

‘Whatever, man. You do you.’

I head off. ‘Don’t forget to take notes in the lecture,’ I call back, looking over my shoulder. ‘Let me copy off you for a change!’

‘Later,’ I hear Tyrone say as I head out off of the college grounds.

A million thoughts rush through my head. On one had I would be foolish to take a fight straight to Luthor, alone and on his literal home turf; on the other, I have an opportunity here to gather real intel, to find definitive evidence we could use to spark Luthor’s impeachment. The truth is, none of us know how corrupt his cabinet is. His Vice President is Pete Ross, a childhood friend of Clark Kent’s who, according to Clark, is an honest man who likely believes Lex has changed; a man motivated by his country and a desire to do right by it. Naturally, Bruce doesn’t trust him, and even Clark admits he hasn’t spoken to him for years, but we can’t take anything for chance.

I head down the road at a pace. It’s a fair distance to the manor from here but luckily I drove the Redbird in this morning and kept it hidden in one of Bruce’s safe houses that he built all around the city. After Bane broke his back several years ago, Bruce swore never to be caught that unprepared again, to never be anywhere within the city that he can’t get aid, equipment, or even simply somewhere to rest at short notice. He gradually built these places all around town - these ‘Satellite Batcaves’ as Barbara dubbed them, anywhere Wayne Enterprises could legally buy the land for without anyone raising an eyebrow: shipyard containers; a garage; a loft; an old tube train, buried by the rubble of the cataclysm. They’re all hidden, they’re all safe; they’re full of suits, equipment, and anything else he might need at hand.

He doesn’t know I know about this one. I’ve been using it as a car park for years.

**Dick Grayson. The Cave. 14:07 EST.**

The cave is vast and empty but I have never felt scared in it. I spent so much of my time here when I was young that even now, in times like this, when I know I’m completely alone down here, these cold, rocky walls feel more like home than Blüdhaven could ever be. I have to admit, however, it feels weird to stand here without my outfit. I doubt even Bruce stands here in his casual clothes. Hell, sometimes I doubt Bruce even _owns_ any casual clothes…

I arrived at the Manor about twenty minutes ago. Bruce was - according to Alfred - ‘currently preoccupied by a desire to take his fourth shower of the day’, and that I should wait down here while he sorted himself out. Meeting in this place isn’t strange though, in fact I can’t remember the last time I showed up and Bruce suggested we talk in the drawing room or the study or somewhere comparatively normal. He’ll walk down those steps at any minute, likely already dressed in the mantle of the Bat, but at this stage I would probably be more concerned about him if he didn’t.

I’m surrounded by deep crevasses; chasms so deep that if you fall, you’re a goner. Fortunately, I know this place like the back of my hand; I’ve trained for hours a day in it, I have done for well over a decade. I would run obstacle courses blindfolded; I would take training simulations that lasted for hours, fighting off holographic ninjas and armed assailants. The only person who knows this place better than me is Bruce, and that’s not by much.

It’s cold down here without the thermals in my suit. I wrap my arms around myself, rubbing my chest, and shivering. All I can think about is Barbara. All I can think about is that… that _memory_. It felt so real. _I_ was Batman. I’ve worn the mantle before but this time it felt different; I wasn’t just filling in for Bruce while he healed from injuries or wanted to stage a performance to help sell his duel identities, I _was_ Batman. I had taken the mantle; I was forming a new identity for myself… The only reason I can think that I would ever do that is if Bruce were dead; somehow I’ve always known that if anyone were to ever carry on the legacy it would have to be me.

Across to my right there’s a line of parked Batmobiles, all the different models Bruce has built for himself over the years or - on the sly - had built for him by Wayne Enterprises. I asked Bruce to give me one but he never has. He likes to say he doesn’t form attachments but the entire cave is full of evidence to the contrary. The giant model dinosaur, the penny, the oversized Joker playing card; they’re all relics of fights long passed, all meaning something to Bruce that he’s unlikely to ever share with any of us. I doubt half these cars even run anymore but he still keeps them. My desire to grab one and take it out for a spin later tonight might prove too great…

‘Dick?’

I recognize the voice, but it’s not the gravel of the Batman. I turn and I’m a little shocked to see Bruce Wayne, my surrogate father, standing on the steps leading up the Manor, dressed not in the bat-suit but in a polo shirt and sweater. It’s weirdly comforting to see him out of the cowl; I almost feel like not mocking his appearance. Almost.

‘Finally,’ I say. ‘I was starting to think you were trying to avoid me. I interrupt a game of golf?’

He’s known me too long to take offence from my jibes. This is the relationship I have with him, and though he doesn’t show it much I think he welcomes the chance to talk a little more light-heartedly, even if it is one-sided.

‘What are you doing here?’ he says at last, his tone a little more like that of the Bat.

I grin. ‘Yeah, it’s good to see you too, Bruce,’ I say. ‘You know, it wouldn’t kill you to crack a smile. Practice in front of a mirror or something, you might surprise yourself.’

He doesn’t say anything, but then I know better than to expect a reply. ‘I need to talk to you,’ I say, seriously.

‘About Penguin?’ he grunts.

I hate how he does that. I haven’t even told Barbara about Penguin yet but Bruce has likely known that Cobblepot’s been operating out of Blüdhaven for weeks now - hell I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already linked him to the jewelry heist as well. Of course, it would be too easy for him to give me a heads up about any of this; he wouldn’t consider that I’ve learnt anything unless I came to conclusions on my own.

‘Sort of,’ I say, ‘but we’ll get to that. First, I think you should be the first to know…’ Okay, this is harder than I thought it would be, and he’s not exactly helping with that fixed stare of his. I sigh, and try again. ‘Me and Barbara are getting married.’

Still he doesn’t say anything; he just continues to stare at me. Is he angry? Shocked? Disappointed? I wish he would show more emotions; I wish he didn’t make me feel like a son who’s just deeply disappointed his father.

Okay, let’s try a different approach. ‘Don’t everyone talk at once,’ I say, giving what I hope is a reassuring smile. ‘Look, I’m serious about this, Bruce. I love her, you know that.’

Finally, he says something. Or growls something, at least. ‘Congratulations.’

Is that it? Is that all he has to say on the matter? ‘You know what,’ I say, my tone harder now, ‘if that’s all you can bring yourself to say then maybe I should just leave. I thought that you might show a little enthusiasm at least, but I guess I was wrong, huh?’ I brush past him, purposefully knocking into him as I head back up the stairs to the manor.

‘Dick?’

Okay, that one wasn’t Batman or the same tone Bruce Wayne has just spoken to me with. He sounds tired, and now that I look at him properly I can see it in his face as well. Bruce has infamously lived by strict standards and little sleep but this is something else; this is exhaustion. ‘Bruce, are you alright?’ I ask, slowly stepping back towards him.

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ he asks, ignoring my question completely.

‘Yeah,’ I nod, my voice suddenly much softer. ‘I actually do.’

‘What’s going to happen?’

‘She’s staying here, in Gotham,’ I tell him.

Is that all that he’s worried about, that she might just quit her role as Oracle now she’s engaged? Just to reassure him I say, ‘She’s not going to leave you, Bruce, and neither am I for that matter. Not now, not ever.’

And then it happens, if only for the briefest of moments. The corners of his mouth twitch slightly and for a second his eyes appear to glisten. It’s a rare sight but a reassuring one none the less. Dare I say, he looks almost happy.

‘Congratulations, Master Dick,’ comes the gentle voice of Alfred Pennyworth from the top of the stairs. ‘Miss Oracle is quite a woman.’

I laugh. It’s always good to hear what Alfred has to say. ‘Thanks, Al,’ I smile.

He heads down the stairs with a tray in his hand and offers me a steaming mug of tea. ‘To warm you up,’ he winks.

‘Thanks, but I think I’d better go,’ I say. ‘Barbara wants me there when she breaks the news to Jim.’

‘Dick, about Penguin,’ Bruce says, stopping me.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘He’s got some guys operating out of a warehouse on Island Point, but you probably knew that already. Two of the them were responsible on a diamond heist on a jewelry store, and from what I could gather Cobblepot hired them to do it.’

‘The diamonds are of little importance,’ Bruce tells me. ‘They’re fake.’

‘How do you-?’

‘I caught Selina after them about six years back,’ Bruce says. ‘They were in the private vault of a landowner from New York; Selina had no idea at the time that they were worthless. I traced their movement; they ended up in Blüdhaven less than a year ago. They’re showy, but ultimately any professional could tell they weren’t worth anything, and I wouldn’t expect Cobblepot to fall for them either, especially not now.’

‘Then why-?’

‘Likely a test, to see if the men he was hiring were worth their salt. I’m more concerned about the shipment.’

‘Any idea what he’s bringing in?’ I ask.

‘My sources haven’t turned anything up,’ Bruce admits. ‘But we can’t underestimate him.’

‘It’s got to be big,’ I point out, ‘Penguin came down to Blüdhaven himself to oversee it.’

‘A stakeout,’ Bruce says.

I nod. ‘It’s happening tomorrow,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll be there.’

‘Take Cassandra. Be prepared for any eventuality.’

‘Bruce, I-’ I start, but I’m cut off, because at that moment a car comes speeding into the cave along the south passage and screeches to a halt. The Redbird. Tim.


End file.
